


Wayward Heart

by Ray_Murata



Series: Black Bird Fly [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Depression, Friendship, M/M, Multiple Origins, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slight Canon-Divergence, Slow Burn, Zevran POV, explicit sex (eventually), more specific warnings offered chapter by chapter, origins campaign, relationships that start out shaky and develop slowly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2018-10-29 07:35:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 118,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10849416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata
Summary: "Death tasted like iron and dirt on Zevran Arainai’s tongue. It was black behind closed eyelids, deafening in his ears like the clanking of metal; not at all what he thought it would be. It was, quite clearly, and that was essentially the problem. A heart hammered against the walls of his chest -- alive, alas -- and he realized that it was his own, still beating. Oh, but he should have known that even that wayward heart would betray him."Zevran Arainai joins the Wardens in their fight against the blight. He doesn't know what he is looking for, but he might be able to find it around the campfire with an asshole mage and a ragtag group of derailed people.





	1. Ambush a few miles out of Lothering

**ONE  
** Ambush a few miles out of Lothering 

Death tasted like iron and dirt on Zevran Arainai’s tongue. It was black behind closed eyelids, deafening in his ears like the clanking of metal; not at all what he thought it would be. It _was_ , quite clearly, and that was essentially the problem. A heart hammered against the walls of his chest -- alive, alas -- and he realized that it was his own, still beating. Oh, but he should have known that even that wayward heart would betray him, no?

Slowly, the stinging pain brought him to his senses and he rolled to his side, coughing blood, his tied hands coming to rest on top of the slit flesh on his stomach. His thigh muscles throbbed with the arrow that had gone through the flesh, his ribs screamed with pain at the slightest movement, but he’d been through worse. Voices hovered around him and he resigned to the fact that he had failed... Yet again.

A grunt escaped his lips, his head spun. He supported himself on one elbow and finally fluttered his eyelids open. Braska. “Oh, oh, I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case might be.”

Looking up, he met the stern gaze of a tall man with short blonde hair and a handsome, sculpted build. This was the warden whose sword had nearly cut Zevran’s middle open, if he hadn’t been swift enough to dodge the blow, getting no more than a shallow cut on his stomach instead. This was the Grey Warden his contractor had insisted needed to be dead-er than dead. How unfortunate he still stood.

To the warrior’s left was the pretty archer whose arrow was lodged in his thigh, and to the man’s right stood the redheaded elven mage whose stone fist had sent him flying against a tree, knocking him out. A few steps away, a human sized spider stood in its eight giant legs. Its talons had slashed through several of his hired mercenaries’ flesh.

An impressive small company, the assassin would not deny it, and yet, for all of their trouble... “I see you haven’t killed me yet.”

“Not yet,” said the mage, and the Antivan Crow turned his head to inspect him for the first time.

The warden matched his contractor’s description rather well: Scrawny. Tall for an elf. Ginger hair tied in a braid, fair skin and large ears. He was plain looking enough, for a Fereldan elf, and hardly what Zevran would call intimidating. Yet mages were foes to be wary of. Their looks said nothing of their skill.

“What is your issue with Grey Wardens?”

“Ah, so I am to be interrogated,” Zevran exhaled, briefly wondering if he was to be disposed of afterwards. Pain traveled through his nerves, his ribs ached with every word that came out, forcing him to pause for breath. He’d rather have died in combat, with an arrow to his neck, than be tortured for information. The Crows, the loyalty that once was, all of the values he had been taught…. None of it was worth a copper anymore. Silence was not worth the pain.

“Let me save you some time. My name is Zevran. Zev, to my friends,” as he spoke, his voice danced, falling into a charming, singsong rhythm out of habit. “I have no personal issue with you or your lovely companions. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens on my contractor’s behest,” he chuckled, ignoring the keen pain, enjoying the irony of his pitiful situation. “Which I have failed at, sadly.”

“You don't say,” the mage said, raising an eyebrow -- If Zevran was to guess, from the tiny curve of his lips, he was mildly amused. “So we’re being targeted by the famous _Antivan Crows_ , that’s quite novel.” There was familiarity in his tone. It was not the first he heard of the Crows..

Zevran couldn’t help but smirk, pleased with the fame they carried even this side of the continent, despite his burning wish to cut them loose.

“Someone went to great expense to hire him,” the pretty archer chipped in with a distinct Orlesian accent.

“Quite right,” Zevran agreed.

“Who?” asked the mage.

“A rather taciturn fellow in the capital.”

“Loghain!” The blond warrior whispered under his breath, fists clenching into tight balls. “First the soldiers in Lothering. Now this!”

“When are you supposed to meet him?” the mage asked, then scoffed. “Well. Were.” He kept his arms crossed over his chest and asked useless question after useless question.

Zevran tried his best to ignore the pain on his ribs and provide pointless bits of information. The more he answered, the harder the warden frowned. “You’re hardly anything like the Crows in Queen Madrigal’s tale,” he said. “Aren’t the Crows renowned for being loyal to their employers?”

Zevran couldn’t help but laugh loudly at this.

“Ah, that is a very famous _tale_ indeed,” he accented the word quite heavily. _Loyalty_ … The name such tales gave to a constant state of fear, helplessness and intimidation, surely. Not that being a Crow didn’t have its advantages. For those higher up, he did not doubt the wealth and power inspired some other sort of allegiance. For most of them, however, devotion was a matter of survival. “Loyalty, you see, is a very interesting concept. If you wish, and you’re done interrogating me, we can discuss it further.”

He could tell by the way the warden’s brows moved that he had piqued his interest.

“Seeing as you’ve already delayed us,” the mage said, “do elaborate.”

“Well, here’s the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That’s how it works. If you don’t kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living.” Zevran absolutely did like the taste of fine Antivan wine on his tongue, interlocking legs in a beautiful lass’ thighs, or a lad’s, wherever his interest happened to be. He loved the touch of silk against his skin, a warm bath, the crude smell of Antivan leather.

Oh, he did like living very much. If he didn’t, perhaps he would have managed to sink his own dagger into his stomach by now. Perhaps he wouldn’t have dropped the vials of poison. Alas, his hands trembled at the thought. Regret, however deafening, was not enough to carry the steel into his own flesh. Someone else would have to do the gruesome work, but Zevran was not going to give the guildmasters the pleasure. Not if he could help it.

If the wardens were indeed tasked with ending the Blight, and seeing as there were only two of them, perhaps in their company Zevran would find an out -- Out of the Crows? Out of life itself? He wasn’t quite sure.

“And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause.” His lips stretched in what he thought was his most charming smile. Or the best he could offer despite the pain that washed through his body. “So let me serve you, instead.”

The tall, blond warden gawked.

The mage chortled, amusement playing in his eyes. “And you’d be loyal to the wardens, is it? Or would you offer to serve the Darkspawn next?”

“I happen to be a very loyal person!” Zevran protested, offended, the pleasant smokescreen fading for a brief moment. It was possibly the truest thing he had said so far. That damned _loyalty_ had brought him here, after all. “Up until the point someone expects me to die for failing,” he added, lowering his tone, making it flippant and subservient again. “That’s not a fault, really, is it? Besides, I do not believe the unpleasant creatures you wardens antagonize would give me much of a chance to offer them my many talents, yes? So you can rest easy -- I shall not betray you to the Darkspawn.”

The mage chuckled again. Why, his laughter was lovely.

Or at least more pleasant than the human warden’s screeching protest: “You must think we’re royally stupid!”

“And who, pray tell, would he get that impression from?” A deep velvety female voice echoed as the large spider metamorphosed back into the stunning raven haired witch the Antivan had seen at the beginning of their fight. Now, this company might lack finesse, but they sure exceeded expectation in terms of beauty.

And battle. The gore show around him would not let him lie. A pity, too. Zevran had spent every last coin in him to hire those… Corpses.

“I think you’re royally tough to kill!” Zevran pointed out humorously. If he’d meant to assassinate them in earnest, he would have charmed and seduced them first, then slit their throats in the dead of night or poisoned them somehow. It sure would have been easier to earn their trust if he had not ambushed them beforehand.

He could try to flatter either or both wardens now, but flirting with Fereldan men without knowing their actual preferences right after failing to kill them seemed rather suicidal. Then again…. Why not? Why not just throw himself at their blades once more? At this point, it would indeed take a dense man to take him for his word. “I’m only _hoping_ that you’re stupid,” he joked, the words coming out of his big mouth before he could think them through.

“That was a joke!” He amended right away, having seen the outrage on the human warden’s face. “L-Let me rephrase that, please. I’m _hoping_ that you are the sort of people that take a chance every now and again, yes?” Oh Maker, his loose tongue had dug his own grave once more. This was exactly why the guild master despised the very sight of him.

“See? What would even stop him from finishing us off later?” The angry warrior asked his  companion, deferring to the mage’s judgment and authority.

So that made _the elf_ the leader? Most unusual. Surprising, but not unpleasantly so. Surely the elven mage would understand _powerlessness_ better than any of his human companions, no? Perhaps appealing to his emotions would prove to Zevran’s advantage.

“To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice regarding joining the Crows,” he interrupted their deliberation. “They bought me on the slave market when I was a child. The fate of many elven children in Antiva, as it happens.” He scanned the mage’s face, hoping to find both pity and kinship on his countenance -- There was definitely some of both.

“I think I’ve paid my worth back to them, plus tenfold. The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can’t touch. Even if I did kill you now, they might kill me just on principle for failing the first time. Being a Crow gets you wealth and power,ut you are an expendable commodity. They do not take failure lightly, and are very prone to making examples of the unlucky. Orphaned elves come a copper a dozen, after all.”

The mage straightened his back and pursed his lips, offering a curt, understanding nod -- A sympathetic gesture.

Giddiness nearly took over Zevran. Either he’d lost too much blood, or there was actually a chance the warden would agree to his proposition. Zevran raised his eyebrows, and he softened his voice to a pitiful whisper. “Honestly, I’d rather take my chances with you.”

“Taking an assassin with us!” The human threw his hands up in the air. “Does that seem like a good idea to _anyone_? I… I can’t be the only one who finds this absurd!”

“Well, he can fight,” argued the mage.

“Rather well, if I do say so myself,” Zevran interrupted. “I am skilled at stealth, and picking locks. I could also warn you if the Antivan Crows attempt on your life a second time. I happen to know their wily ways, no? Not to mention my expertise in twelve massage techniques, six different card games -”

“The Darkspawn would love a massage,” the mage interrupted playfully, chortling and shaking his head. Did this man have nothing at all in his mind but Darkspawn? Zevran had just offered massages, for Andraste’s sake. What kind of person didn’t like the sound of that?

“We should just let the Crow go.” The warrior insisted.

“No.” The mage said matter-of-factly. “If we don’t accept his offer, I’ll kill him now.” His voice did not falter in the slightest, and his companions all went gravely silent.

A gelid shiver ran down Zevran’s spine. That did make matters easy, and yet, somehow, he still found himself clinging to life with his teeth and claws. He wasn’t _scared_ of death, now, was he? No. Nonsense.

“Being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you, no?” He pleaded again. He wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to talk this much, given his injuries. The slash on his stomach had begun clotting, but the wounded ribs throbbed painfully with every word. “I’d be rather happy to dispatch Darkspawn at your side. And when this unpleasant Blight matter is over with, should you decide you no longer have need of me, then I go my merry way -- That is all I ask. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?”

The warden’s eyebrows knitted. His warrior companion shook his head vehemently, flinging arms about and turning around in defeat, for the elven leader looked as though he’d already made his decision.

“Did Duncan tell you how Garahel beat the fourth Blight, Alistair?” The elf asked, turning to his friend. “He recruited help from the most unlikely places. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Calien, have you? He was a Crow mage who fought with Garahel.”

 _Garahel,_ the fabled warden hero, Zevran had heard of. If not from the occasional drunken elf in the taverns in Rialto, then on the starved mouths of ragged elven urchins in Antiva City’s filthy market, where he used to relieve the distracted shopper of their hard-earned coin. Calien, however, was entirely unknown. A famous Crow he had never heard of? Intriguing.

“Alec...” Alistair whined, facing his companion once more. “You can’t be serious... Maker’s breath, if there was a sign we were desperate, I think it just knocked on the door and said hello.”

“Well, we _are_ desperate,” Alec smiled, then turned his attention back to him. “Well, then, Zevran, is it? I hope you’re better at killing Darkspawn than you are at killing wardens.”

Zevran could hardly believe this himself. These wardens were indeed more naïve than he had hoped. Loghain’s fear of them seemed rather uncalled for. “If the Darkspawn are as tough to kill as your lot, it might be a challenging task. If I am so lucky, you will show me the ropes, yes?” He waggled his eyebrows and grinned lecherously, lifting his tied wrists. Was it too soon to flirt with him? Would it undo all the pleading and begging he had just put himself through, or would it help his cause to inflate the elf’s ego? He could tread lightly. “Figuratively… Or literally, if you so fancy.”

“Alistair, loot the caravan.” The warden ignored his leering. “Zevran, I assume you have a traveling kit and other gear somewhere about?”

“In the caravan, yes. My bag would be very much appreciated now, indeed,” he looked down at his wounds, wondering if the bandages he’d brought along would be enough. At least he had needles and enough thread to patch himself up. The ribs might be a bit more complicated.

“Forget your belongings for the time being,” the mage said. “And your knives. Leliana? Where would you wager? Boots?”

“Boots, yes.” The Orlesian beauty agreed. “Skirt. Jerkin. Oh, if you’ll allow me, Alec,” she stepped closer, kneeling down by Zevran’s side and pulling a couple of knives from his boots. “If it’s encouraging in any way, I think having an Antivan Crow with us is a fine plan.” Looking up at the warden, the girl’s lips turned upwards in a beautiful white smile. Ah, but it would be hard to resist temptation in such good-looking company.

And terrible to be left bereft of his knives around them, knowing what they could do.

“Oh,” Zevran raised his brows. “While I do believe relieving me of my knives makes me far less competent against Darkspawn, I shall not object to such loveliness searching me for each and every one of them.” He tilted his head, hoping to dissuade her of the task before she’d found all of his blades. “A tip? You might find one in a most interesting location, my dear.”

Leliana frowned, pulling the last two knives from under his jerkin with such abruptness that he actually groaned with the pain in his ribs. “On second thought, I take back what I said.”

She used one of the blades to cut his wrists loose from the cords.

“You get to keep those,” Alec said, pointing to the dagger and sword on the ground. “Everything else, we’ll see.”

“Ugh,.” Zevran rested his hand atop his aching rib, face contorting with stinging pain. “Have it your way. I reckon my blades will be fairly useless in my current state, anyway. It would be great to be given bandages, no?”

“No,” Alec refused, kneeling in front of him and reaching a hand out. Zevran tried not to flinch, forcing himself to stay still even as instincts told him to jerk away. The pale hand that found his body, however, was not harmful -- Quite the contrary. With an elegant dance of fingers, healing magic mended the cut on his stomach. Another flicker fixed the smaller bruises and injuries all over his skin. Carefully, the mage pressed his hand to his side. A firm, strong touch, but his pale palm was smooth as silk.

“Oh, these frisky hands I could get used to,” Zevran teased.

There were mages within the Crows, but healing was hardly a skill that they excelled at. The guild masters were far more interested in watching their assassins bleed and suffer than they would ever be in mending their flesh. Torture and pain were educational. Healing was pointless.

“Does it hurt?” Alec asked, pressing firmly against his ribs.

Zevran was torn between flat out laughing at the ridiculous question, or simply lying through his teeth. “Not quite, no. Only when I breathe,” he said with a grin. “I believe I have a broken rib, no? Or perhaps two?”

“Or three, depending on how sassy you get,” the mage threatened him without looking up, but the bluish gleam around his hands grew brighter. Heat traveled through Zevran’s bones, the pain slowly giving way to something more akin to tingling.

“Not broken. Lucky you. It’d be a bother if Sten had to carry you -- There’s only so much magic can do at a time.” Alec reached for the arrow in his leg. Without any warning, he set fire to the part of the shaft the stuck out, breaking the arrow free from its feather end.

“Pray it’s not in the bone.” The warden said, twisting the shaft with ease inside his flesh, the pain pulling a silent gasp from unsuspecting lips. It was very much _not_ in the bone.

“Say, Zevran, is it true that all bread in Antiva is flat?” He asked, fishing a flask of beige-colored balm from his pouch.

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “Bread?” He squealed, outraged. What the fuck did he care for bread, right now?

“Yes, bread.” Alec nodded. “In Antiva. I made a bet with a friend ages ago. Lost it, too. But I think I was a fool to pay up... So? Is all bread in Antiva flat or not?”

Hardly relevant, but Zevran decided not to protest. He shrugged. “Not precisely. We pride ourselves in having the best cuisine in all of Thedas. Flatbread happens to be just one of the many options.” His gaze followed the pale, freckled palm that spread some of the balm around his wound. “If we come across the right ingredients, I would be honored to prepare some of the best Antivan dishes for your lovely party.”

The dark-haired sorceress scoffed. “I would examine your food and drink far more closely from now on, were I you.”

“That’s excellent advice for any-ugh!!” Zevran bit his own lip quickly, stopping himself from groaning further as the elven lad used magic to propel the arrow forward in his leg, pushing through the muscle until its head emerged on the other side. The pain was sharp enough that he trembled, sweat running down his forehead and lower back, every muscle in his body tensing… But he endured quietly.

He’d endured much worse.

“It’ll be over soon,” the mage reassured him, wrapping fingers around the bloody arrowhead and pulling at it, extracting the whole shaft from his leg in one swift movement. Blood gushed out plenty through the open hole, but in a matter of seconds, healing magic forced the tissue to regenerate -- Flesh and muscle mending itself to perfection, leaving nothing behind but the lingering memory of pain. “As good as new. It might hurt just a little when walking, for a while.”

Zevran drew a couple of deep breaths.

“Here, drink this.” Alec handed him a flask. “It’ll replenish your blood.”

Suspicious, Zevran sniffed its amber contents, recognizing the smell of any standard health potion.  It tasted like any other potion, too, but the assassin was too familiar with the many methods of masking a poison’s color, scent and taste to drink it at ease. It seemed counter-productive for the warden to waste time patching him up just to poison him, though, so he threw caution to the wind, chugging down the red drink while another wave of warm magic washed through him.

Alec watched him expectantly.

Returning the stare, he noticed the elf’s eyes were bright green. Like apple orchards. Or endless grape vines in Antiva’s countryside, stretching out towards the orange-red horizon upon sunset. The picture distracted him from the ghost pain. He thought of sweet white wine on a warm evening, and he wondered if there would ever be pleasure in life again, if whenever he tried to _feel_ something other than numbness, he saw the gleam of justice fading from her eyes.

This elf’s orchard-green eyes sat beautifully on his fair, freckled skin. Skin as velvety-looking as the palm that inspected his regenerated thigh.

“Such marvelous healing hands you have, my friend,” Zevran purred, albeit tiredly.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” retorted the warden. “I heal with the same hands that I kill.”

The threat came out so easily from his mouth that it would have amused Zevran, were he not in this man’s hands.

Nothing was ever easy.

Alec stood up and Zevran’s gaze followed the pale hand that was offered to him. “Come, we’ve many miles to cover before nightfall. You’re marching vanguard with Sten.” He accepted Alec’s hand, wondering what kind of man, exactly, had just gained control over his newfound life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @turbonerd for betaing the first chapters of this fanfic!
> 
> (3/28/18 update: Also big thank you to @DAfan for helping me review and improve this chapter, as well as most of this fanfic so far.)  
>  **And thank you BEKI for "orchard eyes". <3 ******
> 
>  **WARNINGS before you proceed:**  
>  1\. Zevran suffers with depression and sometimes it will show up in his thoughts and actions. It gets better sometimes, and it gets worse at other times.  
> 2\. Mentions of his past will include mentions of loss and pain and abuse. As expected.  
> 3\. Characters are not perfect and sometimes they will hurt without meaning to. Sometimes they actually mean to hurt and they do. That goes for Zevran, Alec and other characters as well.  
> 4\. Relationships are not perfect. People in this fic aren't _always_ tender and soft, and they take time to learn how to adapt to other people, to figure out how to be there for them. They'll have bumpy moments, they'll fight, they'll hurt. Hurt/Comfort fits as a tag, I suppose?  
>  5\. Zevran and Alec both kill people. Deaths aren't always justified. This is canon-typical violence.  
> 6\. This fic is strongly Chantry-critical.  
> 7\. There will be smut and their sex is very, very important in their relationship and I can guarantee it will be both relevant and character-focused.  
> 8\. Consensual, talked-through bondage will be a thing. Later on. I will, however, add notes in those chapters in case anyone wants to skip such scenes.  
> 9\. I love subverting tropes if I can. Bear with me. <3 I hope you guys like it too.  
> 10\. I love comments and die of joy with each one! Thank you so much for reading!


	2. First night at camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @DAFAN7711 for helping me review & edit this chapter as well. <3

**TWO  
** First night at camp

When they made camp, Zevran could feel magic prickling on his skin as he watched the warden dig latrines in a matter of seconds by pulling earth from the ground with a wave of his staff. Likewise, he and the Wilds Witch effortlessly lifted logs and quickly arranged them by a campfire, which had also been magically lit. They filled basins and pots with water, then walked around camp perimeter casting wards while the large Qunari and the warden warrior pitched tents. It was the quickest he’d ever seen a camp be set up.

Despite the taboo that hovered over the matter of magic, Zevran had never regarded mages as badly as most people did, and seeing these two sorcerers facilitate so many dull tasks with their natural-born skill, not to mention heal flesh with awe-inspiring ease, he couldn’t help but wonder why such able people were kept locked away in cages.

Oh, but he was lying to himself. He did know why. The Chantry benefitted far more from hogging such abilities than they would from sharing it with the populace. What a terrible political move it would be if healers came a copper a dozen, from different places, no? What scandal it would be if the penniless elven whore had a healer alongside the midwife to keep her from bleeding to death during childbirth.

Such was how things went.

Mulling over these matters, however, was nothing but a waste of time, and instead Zevran decided to occupy himself with observing his new companions. Sitting on one of the logs, he watched the redheaded archer. She pulled out ingredients from their supply crate and began to chop through eggplants and carrots with astounding tranquility, happily humming an Orlesian tune. As if nothing in the world was wrong. Apparently she was a cloistered sister, from what he’d picked up during their march, but hehad no doubt that there were secrets hidden underneath those skirts -- Oh, but he would be delighted to find out, given the chance.

The dark-haired witch who made camp for herself several yards away was likewise intriguing. He recalled tales of Wilds Witches in the Tellari Swamps and wondered if there was any truth to the stories. The human warden sure seemed to think that the witch -- Morrigan -- was a threat to the integrity of their entire party. The Qunari, despite having remained stoically silent throughout the day, appeared to agree with Alistair. Zevran could tell as much from the way the man turned his nose up at both the human and the elven mages in their group.

Weren’t there rumors of Qunari keeping their mages on leashes?

Mm. That actually sounded deliciously kinky. Though he didn’t think he’d like to be in their shoes if the binding deal lasted longer than a wild night’s rendezvous.

Zevran had his own shackles to deal with.

“Here,” a soft voice had him turn around. The approaching Grey Warden handed him the spare clothing that had been in his bag, along with a new leather jerkin and a fine cotton shirt. “These should fit, I believe. We also have thread if you want to sew that one up.”

“Ah, much obliged, my friend,” he purred. “I was beginning to feel embarrassed, walking around in such torn rags.”

Alec placed yet another assortment of things by his side. A bedroll, blankets, a new bag and other such useful camping and traveling gear. “I’m afraid we’re out of extra tents, so you’re sleeping outside,” he said, looking up. “Clear skies this week, though, and warm weather, too, so you’ll be fine until we get you a tent.” He walked around the log so they stood in front of each other, and stretched an open palm up, gesturing for something to be given to him. “Your blades.”

Zevran raised a brow, lips parting open to protest, but he noticed the determined hardness in the warden’s gaze and simply closed his mouth again. Begging was pointless.

Narrowing his eyes, he offered Alec his most wicked grin. “Wouldn’t you like to frisk me for any remaining knives?”

To his surprise, the mage mirrored his smirk. “What did you ask? If I’d like to freeze you? If you insist.” With a flick of his wrist, he cast a spell. Zevran felt his feet freeze in his boots. He looked down, watching the ice crawling up his calves towards his knees. His whole body shivered unpleasantly.

“Braska! I had a far more pleasant picture in mind… Oh well then, if  _ you  _ insist.” Begrudgingly unbuckling the belts that kept his dagger and sword on his back, he quickly handed the blades over, fingers trembling with the blasted cold that washed over him.

“Cooperation is a fine thing, innit?” The mage grinned, another flick of his hand melting the ice. “Alistair keeps saying the Blight makes people so cooperative.”

_ Cooperation his arse _ , Zevran thought, a gelid shiver running up his spine. He wiggled his toes inside soaked, cold boots.

He could see where this was going -- This damned mage was making a slave out of him.

If he was lucky, he would still manage to nick at least a cooking knife before he turned in. If fortune were not on his side, however, then the odds were he would not sleep at all tonight. He did not know these wardens, these people. There was no telling if they would simply throw him to the wolves, use him as Darkspawn bait, sell him back to the Crows for two coppers. They might as well.

“And what if an ambush takes place?” Zevran grumbled, the concern very real, the displeasure clear in his tone and eyes both. He tried to keep his teeth from clattering.

“Then you could probably hide behind Sten. It works for me,” Alec joked, chuckling. “There’s no stream nearby, but I left hot water in the buckets if you’d like to clean up.”

“Prisoners get to clean up?”

The mage shrugged nonchalantly. “I value cleanliness.”

With a sigh, Zevran stood up and decided to follow through with the suggestion -- Or should he say order?

Given the state of his boots, at least hot water and clean clothes were things to look forward to. Even if they came as a favor from this suspicious elven mage who treated him as though he were… What? An Antivan Crow who’d just tried to assassinate him?

Zevran might very well consider trying again. What difference would it make if the warden and his companions succeeded this time?

When he returned to camp, washed up and clad in comfortable cotton garments, the damned mage was sitting on the ground with his back against a log, mortar and pestle in his hands. The smell of food had grown stronger, and the two redheads conversed idly.

“Well, yes. In that one ballad version, Ariane asks Bluebeard for a moment to sing the Chant of Light,” Leliana said, adding seasoning to the pot. “Which is the time it takes for her brothers to arrive and strike him down.”

Zevran approached the mage, daringly taking a seat by his side, hoping to learn something useful to earn his trust -- or to use against him. Having leverage against one’s enemies was smart, but having leverage against one’s allies was indispensable.

He was entirely unaware of the tale they seemed to be discussing, though.

“The version I read was different,” Alec said, conjuring fire with his left hand and heating a row of Embrium leaves until they began to sweat a pink-colored juice, which he collected with a glass vial. “In it, Anne was secretly a mage, which is why Ariane had taken her to live in the country house. After Ariane discovers the bodies of his previous wives, she pleads with her sister for help. Anne then makes a deal with a demon to kill Bluebeard, but the demon goes on a rampage and assassinates Ariane as well. When the brothers arrive, they strike down the abomination, and bury the two sisters and all of the wives’ bodies.”

“Oh, that one is quite well known, but it has never been made into music, I’m afraid.” Leliana giggled. “The minstrels might have found it too bloody for the Orlesian palate.”

“I believe you are burning the herbs, my friend,” Zevran said, pointing at the embrium leaves that had caught fire with the mage’s distraction.

“Fuck!” Alec cried out, extinguishing the flames and separating the charred leaves from the ones that could still provide proper juice. “You know how to do this, yeah? Sweat them for me, will you?” He handed Zevran the cutting board and a wooden stick with a burning tip, then picked up the mortar again, apple eyes turning back to Leliana. “I always thought Bluebeard was a Chasind tale.”

“What makes you think I know how to do this, mm?” The assassin raised a brow.

Alec chuckled. “The large collection of poisons we found in your bag, perhaps?”

“I believe there is a Nevarran version in which Bluebeard assassinates the wives to make them into walking corpses, though I’ve only heard it vaguely.” Leliana said idly, looking up at the starry sky. “It has so many versions, I’m not certain where it is from, originally.”

“Ah, caught with my pants down, I see,” Zevran grinned, shrugging and doing as requested, deft fingers expertly drawing the juice from the embrium leaves. “I could’ve procured those, no?”

“Could have. Didn’t,” the mage smiled. “Leliana, you should play me that ballad later.”

“Oh, absolutely. It’s lovely,” she agreed, bringing the ladle to her lips and humming pleasantly at the taste. “The cassoulet is ready. I will call Morrigan and Alistair over.”

“On the matter of my bag, should you feel compassionate enough to return my belongings in the future, I could assist in the preparation of more interesting potions,” Zevran informed him, collecting the blood from the leaves and handing the vial to the mage.

“We’ll see about that.”

Zevran thought about  _ gloves _ . He was in no different position than back when he was a recruit -- Not even allowed to carry personal belongings.

A weapon to the crows… A weapon to these few wardens? Perhaps Eoman was right. He was nothing but what they made him.

Ignoring his own thoughts, he shrugged. “What are you grinding? Elfroot? It smells... Grass-y, no?”

“Elfroot… Felandaris and spindleweed seeds. Morrigan’s recipe. Makes for quite a potent health poultice,” Alec explained, dumping the contents of the mortar in a larger bowl and then adding the embrium juice. He used magic to whip the mixture, quickly turning it into a creamy, reddish batter. All of the others had gathered around and were getting themselves bowls of Leliana’s casserole. Zevran would have done the same, if he did not fear his new traveling mates would object to his proximity to the pot. Instead, he watched the elven mage pour the healing batter into different flasks and seal them with the appropriate lids.

Alec threw them all in a bag, then picked the material he had used and stood up, walking to his tent to put things away. When he returned, he fetched two bowls, filled them up and returned to Zevran’s side.

“You do know you’re allowed to eat, right?” He handed him one of the bowls and a spoon, then reclaimed the place beside him.

“Oh, am I allowed near the food, already?” Zevran waggled his eyebrows. “That is a big step for a prisoner.”

“No.” Alistair denied loudly from across the fire, the slobbering Mabari dog trotting after him. “The assassin is not allowed near the food. Especially not the cheese. Stay away from the cheese.”

“See? The assassin is not allowed near the food.” Zevran chuckled, looking at the casserole bowl in his hands. He had not eaten anything at all since before he’d ambushed this party of travelers, and he was starving. He’d have been eager to throw dinner in even if it smelled like the typical Ferelden grub he’d been unfortunate enough to to eat in Denerim, but it didn’t. It both smelt and tasted wonderful. He hummed at the first bite.

Such a simple pleasure to remind him that there were yet good things to be found in life. “Mmm, Leliana, my dear woman, have I mentioned how absolutely lovely you are?”

“Zevran,” she said, and he found it endearing -- the way she pronounced his name. “If this is your way of complimenting my cooking, I am flattered, but there is no need.”

“What? But of course there is. I am definitely complimenting your food, and the rest of you, my dear woman. Certainly your companions are blind, if they have not done it too, yes?”

“Seeing as you find yourself so entertained with talking, instead of eating, perhaps we should dwindle your portion?” She threatened playfully. “What would you say, Alec?”

“Motion endorsed,” the mage nodded, spoon in his mouth and a mischievous smirk on his lips.

“Oh, such cruelty.” Zevran chortled to mask the lump in his throat. And there went the one bit of pleasure he’d found. No food for the slave. “Is this how Fereldans treat their prisoners? Do you not allow them to appreciate beauty?”

The pair of redheads did not follow through with their threats, and allowed him repeats. But sassy comments earned him dishwashing duty, and Leliana was smart enough to keep all knives very far away from his reach. Once the party of adventurers turned in for the night, he set up his bedroll at a safe distance from the fire and sat about, entirely unable to consider sleep. Sten had the first watch, and all of Zevran’s attempts at idle conversation were met with frustrating “yes” and “no”s. It was like talking to a water wheel.

When Alistair emerged from his tent for a leak, the assassin tailed after him.

“Why are you following me?” The human warden frowned.

“Why, it is night, surely you don’t want to stray far from camp without company to protect you, my new friend. But fear not, I am here to guard you.”

“Riiight.” Alistair wasn’t the least bit convinced. “Or kill me.”

“Perish the thought. I’ve tried that -- We all know how that went, yes?”

“You’re still following me.”

“My oath of loyalty includes such duties, dear warden. I shall guarantee your safety. I’d tell you this funny story about this one time I barged into a mark’s house in the most inappropriate of times -- But it is most unpleasant. Suffice it to say that if Crows do not wait for nature’s call, I highly doubt the Darkspawn do, no?”

“You do realize I am a Grey Warden? And I can sense the Darkspawn?”

“Can you sense the eventual road bandit, too? Or the forest wolves? Stray bears? It is dangerous times we live in, my friend.”

“I am very well protected without you.” Alistair grumbled, hands resting atop the belt around his waist, where he carried his sword and knives. “You better go back to camp before I think you are attacking me.” He sighed heavily. “We should get rope and tie you up before we all end up dead.”

“Ooh, tie me up and manhandle me, yes?” Zevran teased, leering at the human man. “You are a cruel, cruel man, my dear warden, teasing me with such delightful promises...”

“What? Wait! No.. I- I just! Ugh!” Alistair groaned and halted, having arrived at the latrines. He looked down at himself, then over his shoulder at Zevran. Even though it was dark, Zevran was almost certain he’d made the man blush. “Maker’s breath, there’s no way in the Void I can do this with you standing around.”

“Should I help?” Zevran took an imperceptible step closer.

Alistair groaned again, running both hands down his face. “No!”

“And here I was so curious to see what you’re hiding under that belt. Surely it must be a great sword, no?” Another step.

“Maker’s breath! What are you even--?!” Alistair squeaked again, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“You can’t blame an elf for being curious, not when you cultivate such awe-inspiring form!” Zevran stood behind Alistair now. In fact, within an arm’s reach, just as he desired.

Alistair drew his sword and turned around. “I don’t know why Alec insisted on bringing you along, but you’ll stop playing these -- saying these things! And don’t follow me to the loo! Now get back to camp or I- Or I’ll! Or else!”

“Oh, fine, have it your way. You Fereldans are so finicky.” the Antivan pouted, shrugging and feigning defeat, one hand waving dismissively in the air. He turned on his heels and walked away from the human warden, a wicked smile upon his lips as he twisted Alistair’s pocket knife between his deft thieving fingers.

With the small but reassuring blade under his pillow, Zevran actually managed to fall asleep.

For a couple of hours, anyway.

 

* * *

art by [@kitt2506](http://kitt2506.tumblr.com/post/164179695322/experiment-commission-for-raymurata) on tumblr:

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Bluebeard is a French folktale that I adapted here to fit DA universe. <3
> 
> I had the "wouldn't you like to frisk me" scene illustrated by tumblr artist kitt2506:  
> [It's amazing! take a look at it here.](http://raymurata.tumblr.com/post/164192684700/kitt2506-experiment-commission-for)


	3. Second day march

**THREE  
** Second day's march

 

As they broke camp the next morning, Zevran had all of his blades returned to him. Sharpened and enchanted with what Alec assured were Darkspawn-effective runes. The upgrade was quite timely, too, since it didn’t take a couple of hours of marching before their ragtag band encountered a small group of Darkspawn along the road. Through the worst way possible, Zevran discovered that the creatures exhaled a smell worse than rotten flesh, and it lingered even after cleaning up, which Alec was adamant they all  _ must  _ do before moving on.

He truly did value cleanliness, it seemed.

They traveled just a few yards away from the Imperial Highway, occasionally pausing to eat and check up on the dwarven merchant’s caravan. By late afternoon, Zevran learned that Bodhan and the wardens had an agreed special signal that alerted them of bandits on the road. Just as easily as the adventurers dispatched the Darkspawn, they subdued the unfortunate, untrained thieves. Unsurprisingly, the ones that didn’t resist were mercifully allowed to depart, after being threatened to hand over their coin and gear.

The gear was but garbage which the wardens soon tossed, and the coin little more than scraps.

“You do realize that that man did not give you all the coin he had, mm?” Zevran couldn’t help but ask, walking alongside the elven warden.

“I didn’t assume he had, no.” Alec didn’t look surprised. “He must have kept at least a few coppers in his boot, or a hidden pocket. For the wife and child, I’d say.” He smiled confidently at Zevran. “Or did you miss the wedding ring?”

Ah, Alec had him there. What ring? Had there truly been a ring, or was he lying? “Could be just a ring, no? That he’s stolen from a less well-protected merchant?”

Alec shrugged. “Could be. Everyone’s got their own story.”

A practical attitude, for the likes of him. Zevran recalled the redheads’ conversation over dinner. “You seem to enjoy stories.”

“Quite. Have you got any adventures to share?”

“Adventures?” His shoulders wiggled with the laughter that escaped him. “I’m hardly an old man just returned from across the ocean, am I? Should I shake my fist at nearby children as I talk about the good old days?” He got the weird picture of an alienage elder telling young urchins a bunch of bogus stories, or a toothless old pirate making up lies to younger lads in a filthy pub. How old was this warden? Early twenties? “You seem to know a great share of Antivan tales already, no?”

“I’ve read a few, yes, but they could all be lies, for all I know. There aren’t many about the Crows, save for Queen Madrigal’s,” he said, rifling through his pockets and bag for something. “And they’re still not  _ your  _ stories.” He pulled out a bag of dried apple slices.

“So you want to hear about one’s time with the Crows, do you? Perhaps you’d like an account of the grueling training? Being locked in an oubliette for weeks at a time? The slavery? The festering injuries? Or are we seeking something more glamorous?” Zevran teased, his tone just as flippant as always… He wondered if the books the warden had read even implied to the gruesome side of growing up a Crow. He doubted it. He’d heard of authors who had dared paint a less than flattering picture of the infamous assassins in their books, and they had met quite exciting ends themselves. By the hands of their subjects, no less.

The warden took a moment to respond, chewing carefully on his snack and giving Zevran a sideways glance. “Did they not treat your injuries?” He stretched his arm out to offer the apple slices. “It must have been rough.”

“Oh, no, those things never happened to me.” He lied, gladly accepting the snack. “Though I must admit, we lacked such talented healers in our ranks.”

“Did you have many mages in your ranks?”

“If you were to wager the rest of those apple treats of yours between ‘very few mages’ and ‘plenty of mages’, what would you say?”

Alec knitted red brows, pondering silently for a moment. “Very few.”

“Some mages,” Zevran corrected him with a smug grin. “I believe I have won a bag of apple treats.”

The mage chuckled. “You offered me two options, very few and plenty.”

“I offered you a spectrum. Between very few and plenty. Is it my fault you’ve interpreted my words too literally? People tend to do that a lot, you know?”

“Well then, in that case… I offered you the answer I would give, were I to bet,” he picked up another slice of dried apple, making no move to give Zevran the bag. “As it happens, I am not a gambling man.”

“Is that how much I am supposed to trust your word, my friend?”

“Rich coming from an assassin who tried to kill me,” Alec shrugged. “I’m curious, though. Do the Crows get mages from the Circle?”

“Oh no, we don’t.”  _ We _ ? Old habits died hard. Then again, as far as Zevran was aware, he would be a Crow to the day he died. Despite what daft fortune tellers had said, he did not think it’d be long now. “The Crows have a very strong reach into Antivan politics, but we are a very religious people, mind… Even the Crows respect the Chantry. Besides, there is hardly any need to pluck children from Circles when they get so many fresh urchins before their magic has even begun to blossom.”

He’d heard many a tale of gifted children coming to their power while being tested by the Crows. Some of these stories had nasty endings -- Children turning into demons and slashing through their mentors’ flesh. Such was how it went. Mages were dangerous. Some masters and houses were specifically well known for being better at training them.

“So they breed mages?”

“Not precisely, no. They harvest children from brothels and poverty. If they happen to be mages, then the better, yes?”

Alec bit his bottom lip, averting his attention for a brief moment to eavesdrop their companions’ conversation a few steps ahead. Morrigan and Alistair bickered about the latter’s intelligence. When the elf turned to him again, he shrugged. “I don’t know which is worse.”

Did he mean Morrigan versus Alistair? Or the Crows versus the Circles of Magi?

“Were you raised in such a Circle, my friend?” Zevran dared ask.

Alec didn’t wear the typical Magi robes he’d seen in his travels, but how often had he come across an elf who could  _ read _ ? An elven apostate seemed like a rarity, even more so around these parts where the Crows had not branched.  

“Maybe,” Alec tilted his head. “Maybe not. Everyone has a story.”

A man who liked to pose mysteries, then. Zevran would enjoy speculating. “Just so.”

“I’m still waiting for one of yours.”

“What if my stories are as embellished as the books you’ve read?”

Alec chuckled. “Then we’ll see if you’re a good storyteller, innit?”

“Ah, well then… The prisoner is kept for the purpose of storytelling. Such cruelty.” He sighed heavily, affectedly. “Let’s see... What stories could possibly entertain a well-read warden such as yourself? Falling off a flight of stairs is an adventure, so is falling into someone’s bed, no?” Zevran leered, conspicuously raising light brows.

Alec didn’t seem repulsed or intrigued by his innuendo, however, so he went on with recounting one of his very first Crow assignments, not by chance one in which his target had also been a mage.

“I was sent to kill a mage who had been meddling in politics,” he described what he recalled of that one mark’s delightful appearance, not missing the opportunity to flirt with the warden a bit more obviously, hoping to test the waters. “Long, divine legs, much as I suspect yours must be underneath those garments, yes?”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Alec said, red brows knitting and face looking far less amicable than it had a moment earlier. “So she was pretty. Go on.”

Had the flirting turned him sour? Perhaps. That, or Zevran had detected what may as well be a tingle of self-consciousness in an otherwise confident-sounding man. Or the mage could simply be outraged by the fact his storyteller had assassinated mages before. So many options and none stalled his tale.

He proceeded with the story, the woman’s plea, and their night’s rendezvous. The nearly-fatal mistake and the lucky coincidence that had rendered her fortunately dead.

He was not lying, but he had finger picked the tale. He had wanted to spare her. He had meant to, in his foolishness. A single mistake, and  _ he  _ would have been the dead one.

"It was from there that I learned to never let a pretty face go to your head. Professionalism is key you see... And that, my friend, is my moral and story for the day," he finished, somehow expecting Alec, who had spared unsavory thieves and Antivan assassins, not to get his point in the least, to call him a murderer or other something such.

Quite to his surprise, however, the mage  _ laughed _ . Nearly choked on his piece of dried apple, too.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Absolutely not. I have recounted the tale much as it happened.”

“Then that makes you lucky in failure at least twice!” Alec concluded, taking a step to his left, getting closer to Zevran and playfully brushing an arm against his shoulder. “You lucky sod. Does it rub off? I could use some.”

Zevran chuckled loudly, snatching the opportunity to leer at the man. Bold move on his part, but what did he have to lose? His life?

It didn’t seem like it had ever been  _ his _ . It didn’t seem like Alec could read between the lines of his tale, either. But his misplaced amusement was better than reproach, and that little touch was something to be hopeful for… He had his blades again, and at least the elf was keeping a conversation. Perhaps if he could keep the Warden amused… Then…

Then what? He wasn’t sure.

He chuckled. “Oh, this rubbing deal should be done with fewer garments on the way, surely? It would probably be far more effective.”

“You think? Should we do it here? Now?” Alec raised his eyebrows in obviously feigned surprise. “Can’t we maybe hide behind the bushes, first?”

Despite knowing it was just a joke, Zevran’s eyes scanned the area, taking notice of the vegetation around them. Either Alec had said that on purpose, or the irony was truly amusing. He laughed again. “Oh, my friend, it seems we are both out of  _ luck _ . Rashvine would make for quite an unpleasant love bed, I believe.”

Alec raised his hands up in the air and shrugged in feigned disappointment, then returned his attention to the snack he’d been nibbling on. “Didn’t you just say professionalism is key? You and I wouldn’t be very professional.” He offered Zevran another slice.

“Oh yes, there is you. Assuming I were still trying to kill you,” he chewed down a slice of apple. “It’d be a terribly bad idea to let your pretty face sway my judgment… But that does not mean we cannot have a good time, now, does it?” A wolfish grin had found his lips. He’d expected a young mage (possibly raised in the Circle) to be more embarrassed, or at least surprised, by his flirting. Especially a man. It turned out this one didn’t even blush. With skin as white as his, cheeks covered in freckles, some pink would probably look rather adorable on him. A challenge for later, perhaps.

“You know, now I get why you wanted to come with us.”

“Besides the lovely faces that make up your group?” Zevran guessed, narrowing honey colored eyes at him, a lazy smirk on his lips. “And being allowed to live another day?”

“Mmhm, ‘sides that,” Alec nodded, chewing.

“And why is that?”

“Well, you know, chances are the darkspawn will take care of the two surviving wardens any minute now, anyway, so you’ll just up and pack your bags back to your Crows.”

Zevran grinned. As preposterous as the hypothesis sounded, it was also somewhat funny to entertain the idea. “Would you count that as a stroke of luck, dear warden? Considering how the darkspawn lack a certain -- finesse, it would be very difficult to claim the deed. And if I did, I would surely be killed for staining the Crows’ name with such sloppy work... No, no. I would rather take my chances attempting on your life again in the dead of night.” Zevran chuckled, then practically gulped when he saw the look on the warden’s face. Braska. “Which, of course, I will not do. I am just joking, yes?”

“Keep trying, Zevran, and maybe your excellent jokes will kill me one day. They’re more likely to than your daggers.”

Oh, that damned elven warden actually deserved a couple of knives up his bloody orchard eyes for that one, Zevran thought, gnashing his teeth and cursing silently. He managed not to knit his eyebrows, though, keeping the mask on and a friendly smile on his lips. “What about poison, then, mm? Subtle.”

“What about a lightning bolt straight to your heart, mm?” Alec mimicked. “ _ Fast  _ .” He was turning slightly aggressive, and Zevran knew he’d overstepped the boundaries.

So he could not joke around with these Ferelden folk.

Back home, murder threats were commonplace jests… Here, he was walking on eggshells.

“Indeed, that would end me quite quickly.” He put his hands up in the air. “I apologize, my friend. I mean you no further harm. We are simply passing the time with conversation, no?” Alec was already taller, but Zevran made sure to slouch just a bit, making himself look smaller, inoffensive. Playing a part. Always playing a part. Silence reigned for a few minutes, only the crunching sound of apples being chewn. He sighed heavily. “Tell me, though. Where exactly are we headed to?”

“You will find out when we get there.”

Great, his big mouth had managed to successfully assassinate the friendly conversation. He did try to change topics again, but the mage evaded further chit chat like an apostate running away from Templars. In the end, Zevran was left on his own, walking amongst the group as though he were some sort of invisible spirit or flea-ridden dog. In fact, even the Mabari got more attention than him. The rest of the day’s march turned out to be unpleasantly dull.

As of late, Zevran hated the company of his own thoughts.


	4. Another (early on) evening in camp

**FOUR  
** Another (early on) evening in camp

It turned out the Wardens really did little else but march, kill Darkspawn and stop bandits from preying on eventual wanderers and merchant caravans. They found themselves caught up in some fray or another several times a day, but their small company fought marvelously well together.

If Zevran dared say so himself, he was a great addition to the team.

Their mage leader of fiery hair was exceptionally skilled at controlling the battlefield from afar -- He froze enemies on the front lines, allowing Sten and Alistair to quickly shatter the ice statues and timely head to the second line of attackers. He also paralyzed range archers, which made Leliana’s job of piercing through their skulls a lot easier. Whoever Alec couldn’t immobilize, Morrigan made sure to lock in her spider web before gruesomely tearing off their flesh. She also drained mana from opposing mage-wielding enemies, on the rare occasion they came across one of those.  

Throughout battle, Alec inflamed them with re-energizing spells, put on barriers and, the one thing Zevran found most impressive, healed them on the go, mid-combat. They weren’t thorough spells that mended strained ribs or fixed deep injuries, but they did close bleeding cuts, and that guaranteed that none of them fainted midway through an attack, or died from excessive blood loss, like he’d seen happen so many times before.

Besides, if what the Wardens had told him about staying clear of Darkspawn blood was true -- If indeed it was as poisonous as they claimed, then not engaging them with open wounds lessened their chances of contamination.

All things considered, that made them ridiculously incredible in battlefield.

And where did that leave Zevran? Well… It’d taken him two whole seconds to figure something out: Their very leader was their biggest liability.

While Morrigan could turn into a massive spider or bear and Leliana (who favored ranged attack with a bow and arrows) could fight melee rather beautifully with a pair of daggers, Alec didn’t even carry more than a pocket knife.

For someone who played such a pivotal role in their battle tactics, Alec was entirely, absolutely and utterly _helpless_ in close combat. Whenever enemies narrowed on him, he opted to freeze them or stone-fist them several miles away from him. And when the approaching foes were slightly more numerous, he either mind blasted them and ran, froze them and ran, or… Quite simply put, he _ran_! Often towards his fellow warden or the qunari behemoth.

Hiding behind warriors was _actually_ a tactic of his!

It was painfully pitiful, and it would be laughable if that didn’t put them all in danger. And thus, even though Alec had instructed him to put his agility to good use by handling ranged offenders, Zevran had pretty much disregarded his command and made it his personal task to keep foes always within two arms reach from their warden leader. Aside from guaranteeing that their healer was safe, he figured it also gave him extra points of credibility with Alec, and he was in dire need of those.

The warden might have given him his blades back, but Zevran was far from naïve. He had not forgotten what position he found himself in. He needed the protection of a man who did not trust him, and might very well dispatch him himself if he did not prove to be a good addition to his damned cause. It was a tough game to play, this one - Getting Alec to think he was, at the very same time, a valuable asset and an inoffensive assassin. Or at least a clumsy one, whom their party should no longer fear.

It helped that Alec liked hearing stories, and Zevran could fingerpick the ones he shared, carefully weaving the ideal sheep suit. But apparently he wasn’t the only one donning masks. If he were to guess, every single one of them here had a secret -- or a collection of them -- hidden underneath their sleeves. Or tucked inside their muddy boots.

“Ugh, the mud!” He complained, removing his dirty and worn out shoes, sitting beside Leliana by the fire once tents had been pitched. Sten and Alistair had gone out to hunt something to eat, whereas the two mages had excused themselves to practice. He could see their frames in the distance. From here, away from the line of fire, their training was a beautiful pyrotechnic show -- all that lightning, fire and colorful magic that arose between them was quite impressive.

If only they were both wearing fewer clothes items, Zevran could picture many Antivan paying high coin to watch such an exchange.

Himself included.

If mages were going to be caged, at least the Chantry could offer some shows and charge an entrance fee, no?

Though Morrigan was clearly not a Circle Mage, and Zevran had yet to figure out where Alec had come from.

Definitely not someplace that required much physical exercise out of him.

The warden was short of breath and sporting a sweaty forehead when they returned to main camp. Did magic require that much stamina? Morrigan did not look as exhausted. A pity, too. She would have been a delectable sight with sweat running down that killer collarbone of hers.

“You continue to use half of your energy to push your spells through your own barrier, ‘tis rather pathetic. The atrocities they teach in that place. To think one would call this travesty _magic_.”

“Such encouragement from someone who can’t properly heal the simplest of wounds, or bring about a decent storm.” Alec rolled his eyes, conjuring water into a bucket and washing his face and arms, sleeves rolled up. Lean, thin arms. The young warden wasn’t a strong built man, but muscles weren't everything. He had his finer traits, such as those marvelous orchard eyes.

Lost in his admiration of both of them, Zevran almost missed the tip in Morrigan’s scorn. _That place_. Surely she meant the Circle of Magi, no? If Zevran needed further indication, then he got it not half an hour later, when Alistair returned from the hunt with a pair of rabbits for dinner, and Alec set out to skin the animals.

Or try.

“Er, Alec,” Alistair interrupted awkwardly. “You have to cut here at the knee joints first.”

“Mm? Right,” Alec agreed, watching his fellow warden, then returning his gaze to the animal. “A bit different from how we flay people. I’m used to starting at the ankles.”

“You’ve skinned _people_?” Alistair raised a brow, and the corner of Alec’s lips twitched upwards. “Oh, very funny.”

Zevran did chuckle from afar, enjoying the leisure time to sew up torn clothing and clean knee plates and his daggers.

The biggest joke of the night, however, did not come until later, when he was forced to swallow the horror the two wardens had called dinner. He even laughed, waiting for them to point at everyone’s desolate faces, cackle and then magically pull up the _real_ food from wherever they had hid it, but he was out of luck. The bland, disgusting grub was indeed the food they would have to endure that night. If the meat didn’t get stuck mid-throat and killed the lot of them there and then, that was.

How could they ruin two perfectly healthy rabbits this badly?

“I see they do not teach the likes of you how to cook in the Circles of Magi,” Zevran said, poking at the flavorless grub with his spoon, wishing he at least had some Antivan brandy to mask the taste with.

“They teach the _likes of us_ how to roast alright… But it’s usually people. With fireballs.” The mage jested, not denying his link to the Chantry institution.

“I can’t imagine anything, not even people, would taste worse than this,” Zevran chuckled, swallowing down a spoonful.

Alec sipped his water canteen, then threw a leg over the log and turned around to face him. “I thought you said Crows were forced into hard trainings? They let your wounds fester, but they still give you first class meals, then? How very thoughtful of them.”

Did the Warden think himself that smart-mouthed?

Zevran wanted to spit on the floor. Less for the food than the thought of the guildmasters being… Thoughtful. There was nothing thoughtful about the Crows. Nothing kind, or humane. They were all sheep broken to the bone, made to take only the pleasures that could be found skin deep… Now that he thought about it -- They had starved him so many times that he had thought himself the luckiest elf in Thedas when finishing a mark granted him a tasty, warm meal.

And then it granted him coin, and power, and sex. Some affection to be found amidst someone’s warm thighs, for even the Antivan nights could be cold and hollow. He’d thought those pleasures were enough. He’d once been the proudest Crow, parading the streets of Antiva City as though he owned them. But when he dared want for something more...

Zevran scoffed. “There must be some benefit to keep us all leashed. The food, the power, the women...” His gaze traveled to his companion’s thighs, leering. “The men.”

Alec chewed on his own food, knitting his brows, ignoring the flirting. “It still seems very arse-backwards. Ever read a book on how to train Mabari?”

Loud laughter echoed in the camp. “Oh no, dogs in Antiva don’t have the status they do here in Ferelden. They are vermin on the streets.” Zevran narrowed his eyes at Alec. “If you think Crow training is anything like the spoiling you do to your mutts? I doubt it very much, my friend.”

“Punishment and reward, though.”

Zevran decided to ignore that.

Spoon in his mouth, Alec’s comment was muttered under his breath. He shrugged. “But what do I know? Never met a Crow before. Or been to Antiva. Is it as steep as the books suggest?”

Always books with this one. Zevran figured it made sense, him being a Circle Mage and all. Life must have been dull enough in his captivity that _books_ became interesting. “There is a hill not too far from the bay in Antiva City which is indeed steep, but the country is mostly flat land. Have you not read about our infamous vineyards?”

“Some,” Alec agreed. “Did you live in the capital?”

“Mhmm,” Zevran hummed, a smile blossoming on his own lips. “I hail from there. My glorious Antiva City, home to the royal palace, as I am sure you must have read in some of your books. It is a glittering gem amongst the sand.”

There was an innocent glimmer in Alec’s orchard eyes, and so much _interest_. “Is it colorful, Antiva city? What does it smell like, the bay? Fish?”

That he liked stories, Zevran had already figured out. But he sounded like a child right out of his mother’s breastfeeding, asking him what his hometown _smelled_ like.

He figured the boy had never traveled much. And why deny him?

Mimicking the warden, Zevran threw a leg over the log and faced him. “The fishmarket definitely smells like fish, no? But the coast smells rather like -- The salt of the ocean. And the rest of the city? It depends. But the only way to truly appreciate Antiva would be to go there.” His voice turned smoother, and this time he wasn’t doing it on purpose. Talking about his homeland just brought a good tingling to the tips of his fingers, like the hot sun on the skin. It was a pleasure that wasn’t sexual, but that he couldn’t explain either. “It is a warm place. Not cold and harsh like this Ferelden. In Antiva it rains often, but the flowers are often in bloom… Or, so the saying goes.” He smiled. “Do you come from some place comparable?”

The mage chuckled at him. “So the saying goes?”

“Well, you do not think I lived in palaces or idyllic orchard fields in the countryside, do you?”

“No, I wouldn’t think so.”

Zevran chuckled. “Good. Good.”

“But do you have gardens, in the city?”

“In richer areas, absolutely. But Antiva city is colorful all around. We like painting our houses with tints… And then there’s our fabric! Surely you’ve seen Antivan silk somewhere before?”

Alec shook his head. “Orlesian, yes. I didn’t even know Antivan silk was famous.”

“Oh by Andraste’s sweet bosom!” Zevran feigned a blow to his heart, having settled the rest of the grub aside. “This hurts my poor heart. I cannot believe you’ve never touched the marvelous, smooth Antivan silk. Or rolled with someone upon it.” He grinned lecherously. “While a minstrel plays the lillo flute at the brothel. Ah, good memories.” Nostalgia was indeed hitting him hard.

“Can you play it, the lillo flute?”

“No, no. I’m an assassin, my friend. Not a minstrel or a performer. I can perhaps play a song or two in the lillo. _Questa fanciulla_?” Zevran's eyelids dropped heavily, the smirk growing. “But it is not to say I cannot blow a flute.”

Ah, the innuendo was not entirely lost to the mage, nor did it send him running away. Zevran didn’t think it would, anyway. But he was pleasantly surprised to see the corners of Alec’s lips twitching upwards as well, those apple-colored eyes roaming the form his body. Zevran was well used to tentative eyes upon him, and he welcomed it, running fingers through his own barley colored hair, showcasing muscles on his arm. His knees stretched more widely apart, giving Alec’s eyes better view of his tattooed thighs.

Ahhh… Those were more than just curious eyes. A good thing for him, too. The warden was less likely to kill him if he wanted him.

“Antiva is a land of many pleasures, my friend.” He purred, waggling eyebrows at him.

Alec chuckled, shaking his head, turning around towards the fire and closing himself off, as far as body language went. “And assassinations.”

That again? Couldn’t this warden disregard a disheartened little attempt on his life already? Why spare him if he’d never let this go? “Well, every land has its assassins. Some are simply more open about it than others.”

“I suppose.” Alec shrugged, giving their conversation a few moments of pause. “What do you do with the bodies? The cadavers. In Antiva?”

An odd question, and Zevran could see in Alec’s raptly attentive eyes that he wouldn’t take a shrug for an answer.

“Official funerals have their own tradition. The corpses are put in boats and set fire to. But I don’t suppose that’s what you wish to know, yes? You mean the bodies the Crows make?” He asked, and Alec nodded. “It depends if we desire them to be found, no? If it is a mark, the contractor gets the final say. As for the corpses of Crows that failed? They often get dumped in the canals.”

“Which run through the city?”

It was Zevran’s turn to nod. Alec looked away. Morrigan had gone to her tent already.

“Don’t the canals stink?” The mage asked.

Zevran’s first impulse was to protest. Such slander to his home! He opened his mouth to deny it, but nothing came. The poorer areas of Antiva did stink. On hotter days, the canals that were infamous for body dumping were impossible to be around -- Of course those were not the same  that ran by the Castle, but the ones along the alienage. And yet, the elves carried on with their lives, day in day out by those fetid streams. And seeing as such were their sources of water, it was no wonder that so many died of nasty diseases.

But who even cared about plagued elves in filthy alienages… Zevran shrugged, offering no answer whatsoever.

“You miss it, don’t you?”

No use denying something that was so obvious, he figured, offering a meek smile and a nod. Curiously enough, what he missed the most, while not the smell of death in the canals, was almost just as fetid.

“You know what is most odd? For all of Antiva’s wine and dark haired beauties… I miss _the leather_ the most.”

Alec’s red brows knitted, an amused smile on his lips, a chuckle low in his throat. “Is that-- Some kind of…?”

Zevran chuckled with him. “It may as well be.” That the boy could link one thing to another was promising enough, wasn’t it? At least he hadn’t put himself in the hands of a blushing virgin. Or so it seemed. Though despite the interest in those apple eyes, attempts at flirting had gone awry tonight. But conversation was… surprisingly pleasant  in its own regard. It was probably why he found himself sharing pointless bits of himself.

No harm in it, was there?

“But not this once, no. You want to know what Antiva smells like... To me, it’s the smell of leather that has always been most… Peculiar.” And as Alec’s eyes remained on him, Zevran continued. “For years I lived in a tiny apartment near Antiva City’s leather making district, in a building where the Crows stored their youngest recruits. Packed in like crates!”

Most of them died one day or another, but more always came. Taliesen and him always shared their little corner, and then some furs when they were old enough to claim those, and keep them from the rest of the urchins. Back then, they were never that good at the work the Crows would give them, but they were sure good at instilling terror in the other recruits. Pranks and practical jokes were often how they passed the time, or betting who could get another youngster to bed them first. To this day he would never understand why Taliesen played, when he always lost.

Perhaps it was why Taliesen was such a grump. Or perhaps it was a human thing. “The humans complained about the stench, constantly! But I grew accustomed to it.”

It was that smell that told him he was still alive, every night -- Whenever he was back in that tiny apartment, sore to the bones, bruised and purpled all over, bloodied from head to toes and filthy like an alienage pig, tired from training and being forced beyond every limit of his body and mind. Whenever he flopped down on his and Taliesen’s little corner, so badly fed that the grub felt heavenly, and much better than this Ferelden soup, it was the stench of leather that was strong enough to break through the haze, the numbness, the pain. It was it that reminded him of last night’s bet, or a prank he and Taliesen had joked about at some point. The stench brought him back to his own mind.

And reminded him that he’d made it home, yet another day. That he was strong.

“To this day, the smell of fresh leather is what reminds me most of home, more than anything else.”

If he thought the warden would find him odd, it didn’t seem so, judging by the smile on Alec’s lips.

“For me, it’s… Molded books. The sort that makes you sneeze and want to die. Yellowy, old and crumpling books. With a tint, faint scent of Lyrium dust from a failed attempt to preserve it.”

Zevran chuckled. “That sounds very peculiar. I’m afraid I have never sniffed any Lyrium dust on an old book myself. You will have to show me one day.”

“If you’ll find me some Antivan leather.” Alec nodded, looking upwards at the sky. He smiled. So soft… Nothing like the confident grins he often sported.

There was more to this boy than he let on, was there not?

“It does sound glittering, your Antiva City.”

“Shiny. Glimmering. A star, it is,” Zevran agreed, a nostalgic sigh escaping his lips.

“Has it been long, since you left it?”

“Not so long, no,” his shoulders slumped a bit, and he stood up, collecting the bowls to wash them in the nearby basin. “It is my first time away from Antiva, however. And the thought of never returning makes me think of it constantly.” Did his words come out as choked as they felt? Alec offered to help washing the dishes, but Zevran refused with a flick of a hand. His gaze lowered to his own shoes, and he pursed his lips painfully. “You ever wanted to buy something, but didn’t, and regretted it painfully later?”

Alec shook his head. “I’m a mage,” he said simply.

Zevran threw the bowls into the basin, squatting in front of it. “Before I left Antiva City, I was tempted to spend what I little coin I possessed on leather boots I spotted in a store window. Finest Antivan leather, perfect craftsmanship… Ah… I was a fool.” He sighed again.

The mage waved his hand closer to the basin, and the water turned pleasantly warm. “I thought you said being a Crow got you wealth.”

Zevran wasn’t sure if he should be impressed at how attentive the warden was, or annoyed at his nitpicking. “I said that? Oh well, it can.”

Being a Crow could get you coin, if you cared to do the job.

Back then, however, Zevran wasn’t even sure how he managed to put a foot in front of the other, let alone have enough coin to buy boots. Not after so many pitiful, nearly failed jobs that hadn’t resulted in his death simply because Taliesen wouldn’t leave him alone. Wouldn’t give up on him -- Wouldn’t end up in a canal, like they both deserved.

Controlling an involuntary surge of distaste for himself, Zevran put on his perfectly crafted mask again, and offered the mage a wanton look. “But I happened to have spent my wages on more, say, worldly pleasures.”

Lies, flirting, sexuality… It came easily. And it crushed any questions Alec may have.

“I did have enough,” he continued with the lies, “but I thought -- Ah Zevran, you can buy them when you return, as a reward for a job well done? More the fool I, no?”

When he knew that this time the stench of leather would not break through the haze and pierce through the pain. He would not come ‘home’ to it again.

Or so he thought. And yet here he was, not a clue what would come next. All his bets placed in this young elven mage’s hands.

And the boy smiled at him like _he_ was the child.

“Antiva survived the Fourth Blight, Zevran. I thought it’d be wasteland like the Anderfels. After all I’ve read about what the Blight did to it, it almost feels like you are lying to me, about orchard fields and vineyards and flowers always in bloom.” Alec chuckled, putting away the clean bowls. “I’m sure if your home can survive that, it will still be there for centuries to come.”

“It is always talk of Darkspawn and Blights with you lot, no?” He chuckled warmly. “But you are right. Antiva is a constant… And it is a comforting thought.”

As comforting as it’d get. Antiva might be there, but _she_ was no more.

Maker knew if he’d ever have the chance to go back.

“One simply never knows what is to come next.” He leered, standing up, returning to Alec’s side by the log. “How could I have suspected I would end up defeated by a handsome Grey Warden with hair as fiery as the flames he wields on his fingertips, an elf who then tends to my wounds and spares my life? Humours me in idle chats?” He reached a hand out to the mage’s leg, palm resting on his knee. “I could not.”

Finally he managed to get some color on those freckled cheeks, though it was just a faint reddening, and the mage was shaking his head, scoffing in amusement.

“You make it hard to wrap my head around your intentions, Zevran.”

“Do all Ferelden have that poor a memory?” Zevran withdrew his hand. “Or is it a Warden thing? I faintly recall swearing an oath to serve you, not too many days ago.”

Alec scoffed again. “I’m not looking for servants. Or do I look human to you?”

“With ears that big? No, my friend. I am surprised no one calls you sword-ears.” Zevran couldn’t help himself, shoulders waggling with laughter. Alec rolled apple eyes at him. “I mean it in good nature, yes? They are marvelous ears.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The boy waved a hand in the air, standing up to pick a book from his bag. It was his night watch, which explained why _he_ was still up.

As for Zevran? The collar loosened around his neck the longer they talked. “What is it that you are looking for, my friend? If not servants? Darkspawn-killing machinery?”

“Allies?” Alec shrugged, then cocked his head to the side and offered a playful grin. “Good tales of Antiva City and daring assassinations?”

“Oh please, no more. Give this poor storyteller a rest.” Zevran feigned tiredness. “The more I speak of Antiva, the wearier I get. It makes me wistful and hungry for a proper meal.” For once he wished he were joking, but his words couldn’t be more honest. Fereldan food sat heavy in the stomach, but it hardly appeased the appetite. He would dream of a proper fish chowder this night, or some delicious tomato soup with meatball and garlic bread. “Oh, _Braska,_ ” he mumbled under his breath.

“We can buy spices in Redcliffe. I’ll let you cook,” the Warden suggested, conjuring a glimmering wisp that hovered around him. He opened a page of his book. “Under supervision.”

Zevran smiled. “You told me where we’re going, _and_ you’re giving me permission to cook? All in one day? What will the others say?”

“That I’ve gone mad,” Alec chortled. “Now get the fuck back to your bedroll, get yourself some sleep. Dream of leather, I don’t know. I can’t have you dozing off mid-march tomorrow.”

“As you command, my dear warden.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaandd... They finally have a somewhat sweet conversation! <3 Lots of HC's about Antiva and Zev's feelings there! I hope you guys enjoy it!


	5. A day from Redcliffe

**FIVE  
** A day from Redcliffe

 

It started raining as soon as they had set out for their last day marching towards Redcliffe. 

Not the refreshing, summer drizzle he was used to from Antiva, or the short-lived storm that rose one’s spirits, but nonstop, torrential waters for hours and hours. More than once Zevran found himself buried to the knees in the mud, and it did nothing to boost their fighting skills.

The upside, of course, was that the pouring rain had scared bandits into staying home for a day, but Zevran knew it was asking too much to expect the Darkspawn would care in the least. They had come across two numerous groups of the nasty creatures already in one day, and Alistair had gotten a sword through his upper right arm that forced them to pause for a good while for adequate removal and healing -- All of it made harder by the mud and the rain.

Marching slowed down, they couldn’t stop to have a proper midday meal, and making camp earlier than usual seemed pointless, as there was little comfort to be had from being soaked in camp rather than on the road, or sleeping in the mud. They were much too far from any settlement to turn around and seek refuge, and no one knew the area well enough to vouch for any caverns nearby to take shelter.

It was a small blessing when they bumped into a merchant along the road. The man had dried meats and spirits to sell (Zevran was beyond joyful that Alec was eager to procure those) and he pointed them towards the standing ruins of an old Tevinter Temple, not too far off the Imperial Highway. The human merchant brought news from around the country, too, and as they steered to the mentioned ruins in hopes of finding some shelter from the rain, the Wardens had to raise their voices to discuss the new bits of information they’d acquired. 

“Don’t you want to turn around and head to the Circle?” Alistair asked.

“We’ve already made this decision, Alistair. We’re one day from Redcliffe.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t know that there was something wrong going on in the Circle.”

Alec shook his head. “But we knew there was something wrong with Redcliffe. We ought to figure that out first.”

“But you remember Ser Donall, back in Lothering?” Alistair nagged. “With the Arl sick, we might be heading into a pointless visit with the Arlessa. We aren’t exactly looking for tea and biscuits right now -- As good as it sounds.”

"Tea and biscuits sounds perfect." Alec rolled with the joke, turning around to his fellow Warden. “I am a healer and a herbalist, Alistair. Trust me. If instead of looking for insane, religious fables, the Redcliffe Knights were seeking out proper magical help, maybe the Arl would be alright by now.”

“Maybe they did.” Alistair speculated. “Maybe there wasn’t a mage around to help because the Circle is closed off. The merchant said the Templars aren’t saying anything -- That sounds bad… _Ominous_. Doesn’t it sound bad?”

Alec lifted his staff to remove a fallen tree from the road. “They always find some reason to say something’s wrong, and mages are always locked up anyway. Anything involving us always sounds ‘ _ominous’_ coming from Templars.”

“But you were raised there... Aren’t you worried?" Alistair insisted. "Shouldn’t we at least--”

Alec halted, turning around completely to face the human man. “Do you want to lead, Alistair?” He asked, tone rather sharp.

“What? Me? Lead? No--” Alistair squeaked, fumbling with his sword.

“Then listen to me -- Whatever’s going on in the Circle can’t be that bad." Alec stretched a hand, cupping Alistair's cheek in his palm and staring up at him. "They’re in a tower in the middle of Lake Calenhad, as protected from the Darkspawn as one can get. We can’t just turn around and throw away five days of marching towards Redcliffe -- which may be overrun by Darkspawn according to a handful of travelers we’ve come across so far --, just because one bloody merchant says there’s ‘ _something wrong_ ’ in the Circle. That’s as vague as it gets. So we’re going to Redcliffe, we’ll do what we can for the Arl and hope that he stands with us." His hand withdrew, but only to playfully slap the side of his friend's neck. "Now will you stop worrying pointlessly and help me find these ruins or what?”

“Y-Yes.” The human stammered, nodding in agreement.

Not like Alec had left much room for arguing, anyway.

Zevran didn’t care either way. Whether they were headed this way or the other, handling this Blight sounded like a suicidal mission just the same. If they could at least get a few hours of sleep before inevitable death caught up with them, he’d be grateful.

But it turned out calling the old Tevinter Temple “standing ruins” was a bit of a stretch, as only a pair of pillars still stood. There was no roof under which to hide from the rain, no walls to protect them from the chilly wind. But despite weeds growing here and there, the cemented, wet floor of the ancient ruins was much better than muddy Ferelden soil.

One had to look on the bright side to stay sane.

“The merchant didn’t have any tents…” Alec told Zevran, lifting his staff up high and casting some sort of field over their heads which temporarily sheltered them from the rain.

Zevran wondered why Alec hadn’t cast that barrier upon them before, but even magic had its limitations. The mage had to keep feeding it with mana, and perhaps that was distracting somehow. He still gave orders left and right, though. Alistair and Sten were told to start pitching the tents under the barrier, whereas Leliana made a fire to heat some bits of meat. Morrigan, of course, was left to her own devices, and Zevran knew to rule her out as a tent-mate candidate when the Warden informed him they’d have to share.

The mage didn’t want to sleep in the same tent as Crookytail, and Zevran found it rather funny that everyone referred to the mabari as Alec’s, but the hound was hardly ever seen at his side.

The mutt usually tailed along Alistair or Sten, both of whom obviously considered the slobbering, wet dog a better companion (and a more welcoming tent-mate) than ‘ _the Antivan assassin_ ’.

Zevran shrugged it off -- He got that a lot. He was used to being feared and kept at an arm’s length back home as well, and he didn’t care whom he shared a tent with, as long as he had some sort of roof over his head for the night.

Between the two redheads, both of whom didn’t seem to mind him, Zevran would say he ended up getting the better arrangement in the end.

“A beautiful lady for a tent-mate? Any elf would consider this his luckiest night.”

“You can really drop it, Zevran.” Leliana snickered as they settled into the tent. The loud noise of rain pouring on the canvas soon indicating that the Warden had lifted the barrier and retreated as well. “I will not be distracted by your incessant flattery if that is what you’re expecting.”

“Oh, far from it.” the Antivan denied, though he couldn’t quite hide the crease of his brows for a moment there. Leliana was smart -- Too smart. “I have already noticed you’ve a sharp eye, my dear woman. With or without your bow. In and out of the battlefield.”

It was that very same mastery in battle that had him doubting her kind and naïve ‘Chantry sister’ act entirely. She was regal, and a human, but he did not think there was blue blood in her veins at all. Leliana could fire arrows both in long and shorter distance, trick shots that one hardly ever learned in more traditional archery schooling. As far as he’d gathered, she’d been the one to sort through his poisons on the Wardens’ behalf, and, to top it off, she could sing and play the lute. It seemed to him like she was doing a poor job hiding away the skills one would usually find in an Orlesian spy.

“Too sharp for a Chantry sister’s.” He added. “It’d seem sisterhood is very different in the South, mm?”

Leliana giggled. “You know I wasn’t always a sister, Zevran.” She glanced at him from the corner of her lovely blue eyes, a wicked smile on her lips that told the tale of an exciting past. “Some of us had colorful lives before devoting ourselves to the Chantry. I was a traveling minstrel if you must know. The road posed its dangers, and you’d expect us to pick up some skills along the way, wouldn’t you? Why, yes, you would.”

She chuckled nervously at her obvious attempt at dissimulation, and Zevran joined her.

This woman, he liked.

If anything, she didn’t give him the same judgemental looks Alistair and Morrigan did, and she’d agreed to allow ‘the assassin’ to sleep in her tent. She was bold. Besides drop dead gorgeous, but there was only so much of that beauty he’d be allowed to see tonight, it seemed.

“Would you turn around?” She asked, to which he obliged without protest.

For all of his flirting, Zevran considered himself a gentleman. He knew all too well what it was to have one’s privacy over one’s body denied, and he had no interest in being the one to deny it to anyone. Watching the canvas, he could hear Leliana fumbling with damp clothes, wringing out the garments. He’d admit it to no one, but knowing that she, too, wasn’t looking at him, left him far more comfortable to follow suit and take off his own clothes.

When eyes were on him, making a show of undressing was nothing short of second nature. There was always a nagging feeling that he _needed_ to look sensual, to seduce a target.

But it was easier -- so much easier, to just peel the layers off himself without giving a damn. To undo his own belts without effort, quickly pull out the sets of knives from under his jerkin, trade the heavy skirt and soaked undergarments for a not so wet pair of cotton pants.

“Are you done?” She asked, and he knew she was herself turned to the other side of the tent by the way her voice reverberated.

The mask fell back into place without Zevran even noticing. “Is this not when we get started, my good woman?” He asked humorously, his tone lewd again, chest still bare. “The best way to conserve heat is through the friction of unclothed skin, so I hear.”

“Good thing it’s a warm night, then. Despite the rain.” She retorted without skipping a beat. “We might only need to _disperse_ heat. Which I can do by getting rid of tent-mates if needed.”

“Oh such cruelty.” He sighed dramatically. It wouldn’t have been all bad if flirting led somewhere, but Zevran wasn’t so keen on sleeping outside either. He tilted his head to the side, finding Leliana watching him with a warm smile on her lips. She was dressed in a sleeping gown, and he made an effort _not_ to let his eyes stray past her collarbone.

She, however, did not offer the same courtesy. Her gaze roamed.

He smirked, boisterous, running a palm over his own naked chest. “I am at least allowed to sleep like this, yes? My shirts are too damp.”

“Yes, but you'll stay at your side of the tent.” Leliana giggled, lifting eyes back to his own. Hers were blue, too blue -- They did not stir his stomach like _hers_ used to, but there was a pang in his chest that he didn’t want to relive. He steered his gaze away, watching the canvas flap with the wind.

If she noticed his deflecting, she said nothing of it. “Say, Zevran. These markings of yours… Do they mean anything?”

“Some of them.” He looked down at himself, briefly. “Some symbols are sacred to the Crows, and bestowed upon the assassins who’ve undergone certain… Shall we say, milestones?” He explained, fumbling his bag for the dried meat and spirit that the Warden had shared with them before they all retired to the tents. Leliana had her own share, so he didn’t bother offering his. Maker knew rations were already few today, but at least there was some comfort to get from the Brandy.

It burnt down his throat, a pleasant warmth washing through his nerves.

“What kind of milestones?” She asked, curiosity sparkling in those eyes as she chewed on a piece of dried meat and placed her furs on the ground, making herself more comfortable.

Zevran shrugged, chugging down more of the spirit. “Oh, but I am not permitted to tell you what they mean.” As if it mattered, at this point, what bits of loyalty he kept to the Crows...

One way or the other, he was dead. But why talk about it to this woman? Why tell her that the eyes on his back were an allegory to their skills -- How all Crows had somewhat similar markings, but the lines changed from house to house. Only each house knew exactly how the design differed, and that was one of the many ways to tell a real Crow from an infiltrated spy.

Such as an Orlesian bard.

Setting his canteen aside, Zevran straightened his shoulders, inflating his chest and showcasing the inked lines that swirled along his musculature. “Some are meant to accentuate the lines of the body.” He smirked, well aware his was a fine one. His looks were as carefully sharpened as his knives. “It helps an assassin in more ways than one can count. The designs go on further, yes? I would be obliged to show them, if you wish.”

Half of him expected her to enjoy the view. The other half hoped she’d simply drop the matter.

But Leliana nodded in an altogether unphased way. No blushing, no embarrassment. No interest either. Well, now that was a bit of a bummer. “There is really no need. I get the picture already.” She said, fetching her water canteen. “Orlesians find it easier to accentuate the body with fabric. Adornments. Jewelry… Oh, and paint as well. Face paint.”

“But paint is not permanent.” Zevran found himself chuckling. “There’s only so much it can do… And so far down it should go.”

Leliana giggled. “Yes. I have to agree with you there. But jewelry? Oh, yes. There are some very intricate pieces… For that kind of purpose exactly.”

“Those, I have seen before.” He admitted, adjusting his bedroll and resting an elbow on his pillow, chewing on what was left of his meat. “I'd assume they would look beautiful on you, all of it.”

“Oh, but I did not have to go that far,” she chuckled. “Did you?”

Zevran shrugged. “Occasionally.” A bit of an understatement. “I’ve had to do many things for my job as a Crow. Most of them pleasant, if I do say so myself.”

Many not so. But what would she care?

“I’ll admit... Catching a few eyes was never that unpleasant. And favorable, sometimes.” Leliana mused. “As you can imagine, even the greatest of all traveling minstrels would not be allowed in an Orlesian party if not dressed for the occasion, and in the correct color of the season! But it was such marvelous fun! I enjoyed the dresses very much. And the shoes!” Her shoulders went down. “Oh, how I miss the fashion in Orlais.” She sighed wistfully. “It’s truly what I miss the most from back home… From those… _Adventurous_ days.”

Those adventurous days… Zevran couldn’t help but laugh.

Leliana skirted around the matter, called herself a traveling minstrel, but a shared gaze told the tale of much more. It almost seemed as though she was trying to conceal it from herself, rather than from him. Then again, if her being a Chantry sister wasn’t just an act to hide her true craft, Zevran figured it almost made sense.

“And why did you leave?” He wondered out loud.

Leliana stared at the muddy boots set aside at a corner of the tent. Silence fell between them for a moment. “I left because I was seeking… A life of contemplation. Of purpose.”

At least she had had that choice.

 _Leaving_ still sounded like a faraway, surreal ideal to Zevran. He marched with this ragtag bunch of travelers, hoping that some sort of freedom could be found at the end of the line… But it only seemed like death would meet him there, one way or the other.

There was no leaving the Crows.

Not even the Maker would give him shelter -- If He even existed. If He even cared.

It was far easier for humans to believe, he reckoned. Leliana must have been reading his frown, because she went on. “Many think that a Sister should be immaculate and raised in the Chantry to know nothing else, but that’s not what it takes to be affirmed. Only devotion.” The redheaded girl spoke softly, soothingly. But Zevran felt it as a discomfort nonetheless. “The Maker accepts all those who are willing to return to him, and…”

She paused, and Zevran regretted asking. Surely she would try to convince him into the Faith now, yes? Religious preaching was the last thing he wanted or needed right now.

“I simply wanted quiet to ponder what my life had been.” She continued instead. “But even in the Chantry, there are many who do not think the Maker is watching over us all… Yet I believe He manifests in all that is beautiful in this world.”

“Then you have an undeniable manifestation of the Maker right in front of you, no?”

Leliana’s red brows knitted, and his own lips curved upwards in a shit-eating grin not even she could resist. She chuckled, then cracked up in laughter, playfully hitting his calf and shaking her head. “You are impossible, Zevran.”

“And irresistible,” he added, chortling, winking at her.

“I beg to differ.”

“Ouch,” he clutched his own chest, feigning hurt. “Straight to my pride, then. I am not sure I can recover from this one.”

“You will survive.” She giggled.

Weighting the rest of the contents in his canteen, Zevran sipped more of it. He wasn’t that weak for spirits, but little food was taking its toll. There was a tingling in his fingers, a familiar weight that had him throwing his head back and flopping down on his bedroll. “Perhaps I could change your mind, were I wearing one of those wyvern-leather high boots with golden buckles, and a charmeuse vest with golden embroidery. It would bring out my eyes, no?”

“Oh, it would. And dark wine leggings to accentuate your legs?” She chimed in.

“See? I knew you’d like it.”

Leliana chuckled heartily. “I bet cordovan shoes would look great on you. And green silk. Golden would be an atrocity in the summer in Val Royeaux, you know. There are standards to abide by.”

Just like that, Zevran set Leliana out on a lengthy rant of which fabrics would look best on him, which were more common in Orlais, and what clothes would be a fashion crime depending on the situation. He engaged easily, sharing his own knowledge of Antivan fashion -- Which, dare he say, was far from a novice’s. Like a bard, a Crow too often had to attend the most pompous of parties in pursuit of a mark, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it.

Luxury was so appealing.

And it passed the time, to imagine Royal palaces and grand rooms, when the two of them were sharing a tent in the middle of a Ferelden swamp, sheltering from the torrential rain. And even going out to relieve himself seemed like an Andrastian task if there ever was one. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have drunk all my spirits.”

“You can call Alec, ask him to put up that barrier.” She suggested humorously. “Or Morrigan.”

“And be pulverized on sight?” He chuckled. “I’d rather get wet.”

“As long as you don’t get wet in here.”

“Speaking of... Correct me if I am mistaken,” Zevran sat up, knitting his brows, a hand pointing outside of their tent. “Isn’t it both a Templar’s and a Sister’s duty to report apostates to the Chantry?”

“In theory, yes.”

“And yet you travel with two.”

“Oh, neither Alistair or I are under Chantry jurisdiction any longer. You’ve seen the Darkspawn, and I’ve seen what their hordes can do. There are much more pressing matters than keeping apostates in Circles, don’t you think so? Besides, I wouldn’t dare call either of them that.” She grinned. “Morrigan would indeed pulverize you on sight. I don’t think she enjoys being called Witch of the Wilds either.” Another giggle -- In fact, they’d been chuckling and laughing for the better part of the hour now. “She and Alistair have had enough arguments about it.”

Zevran’s lips curved upwards. Antagonizing Morrigan and Alistair both sounded terribly fun. “And our dear elven Warden? He used to be a Circle mage.”

Leliana shrugged. “I'd say he prefers to be called by his name. Or ‘ _Warden_ ’, but not in front of others, if you will. He even lied to me about that. There were some of Loghain’s men after him, after all.” She smirked. “As you would well know.”

“I take it they reaped as little success in the task as I did, yes?” He laughed mirthlessly. Such a difficult man to kill, and was it any wonder? He knew next to nothing about the other elf before attacking him, and not much had changed since.

The Warden had let his guard down the night before, but even then, Zevran realized the boy had steered their conversation exactly where he’d wanted. Alec had asked about Antiva, about him, about so many things, and he’d gotten most of it from Zevran. But he’d barely said a single thing about himself, and the Antivan was left still not knowing shit about him, except that he was fond of molded books. “What do you know about him?”

“Not much.” Leliana shrugged. “He wants to end the Blight… And he’s not a very faithful man.”

“No?” The elf wondered. “Don’t the Templars raise mages into the Faith?”

“I’m not sure. But threatening a revered mother isn’t very pious behavior, is it?” She shook her head, and elaborated further when she caught Zevran’s curious look. “Sten was kept in a cage for murdering a family, and the revered mother wouldn’t agree to let Alec conscript him into the Wardens to help fight the Blight. I mean… I understand why he did it. But I believe there could have been a less violent way to convince a woman of faith.”

“So why are you following him?” Zevran asked honestly. Unlike himself, Leliana had choice. She was not Alec’s prisoner. If she was looking to serve a religious cause, why stay?

“Well. He was in Lothering for two weeks, and I watched them. They helped the locals gather supplies and pack up and head North or East to flee the horde. The people were desperate and lost and maybe it wasn’t much, but Alec gave them confidence and a glimpse of hope. He might not believe in the Maker, but that doesn’t mean the Maker isn’t guiding him. The Maker has a path for all of us, Zevran.” Her pale cheeks turned a shade redder, and if Zevran didn’t know any better, he’d think she had a crush on the elven mage. “And I--” She stammered. “I had a vision. This is the path the Maker set me on.”

“A vision?” Zevran rose a light eyebrow, smirking and snickering. “Like a naughty dream -- With a certain ginger elven Warden? Was he beckoning you to ‘ _come hither_ ’?”

“N-no! Of course not!” Leliana fumbled with her skirts, turning from him. “I’d rather not talk about it. Besides, I’m tired, and we’re marching early tomorrow.” She fluffed her pillows, pulled her furs over her body and lay down opposite from Zevran.

But she couldn’t sleep. He could tell from the way her body heaved. Even after a good half hour of silence, her breathing hadn’t turned into that heavy, sleep-induced inhaling and exhaling. And just as Leliana, neither could Zevran get any rest. He lay awake watching the canvas of the tent, not wanting to let his mind wander back to Antiva… Not wanting to dwell on the fact he was captive to a man he barely knew.

Not wanting to think at all, and yet being unable to shut down.

Leliana had a purpose.

And he? He was an empty sheath. Maybe Alec thought him a weapon, like the Crows had made him… But he wasn’t even sure what he was doing. Why he was here, still clinging to… This. What point was there in any of it? Even in the beautiful woman sleeping next to him, in whose arms no comfort could be found except pious words he didn’t believe in?

What comfort was there in the spirits?

They only served to fill his bladder. To make him squirm, curling his toes, trying to hold back the need to relieve himself. But eventually the rain turned into drizzling and then finally stopped, and he had no more excuse not to force himself up and out of the tent.

To his surprise, Alec was out there. He was sitting solemnly on a wooden log, nursing a canteen and staring into nothingness. Heavy leathers thrown over his bony shoulders and a shiny wisp looming, dancing around him.

Zevran ignored him on his way to the latrines but got curious on the way back.

“You can’t sleep, my friend?”

Alec shrugged. “Thought someone should keep watch, even with the rain.”

“The Grey Wardens are so very dutiful," Zevran teased, taking the seat next to the mage, deciding to prod further. “Are you worried? About the shady news from your Circle of Magi?”

“Why would I be?” The boy turned to him, tone sharp and defensive. Orchard eyes so very tired. “Would you lose sleep over _your Crows_ if someone said shit’s hit the ceiling back in Antiva?”

Zevran frowned, trying to understand how the tables had turned on him. But the answer to that question was quite simple. “No. _The_ Crows can handle themselves.”

“Precisely.” Alec looked ahead. “So if you came here to annoy me you can turn around and go back where you came from.”

“To Leliana’s tent _?”_

“To your… Whatever. Your Crows. Your Antiva and its flowers always in bloom.”

As if that was even a possibility.

Zevran sighed, bracing his palms on the log on his sides, craning his neck back to watch the cloudy, dark sky. Not a single star in sight. “Say, my good warden. We’ve talked plenty of my Antiva and its flowers always in bloom, but you have yet to tell me where _you_ hail from. I assume you were not born in the Circle.”

“No.” Silence hovered between them for a while. Alec scratched his eyes, then rested elbows on his knees and went on. “I'm from the Anderfels.” He said, watching the pillars. “My memories of it are mostly blurry, though. I remember a desert, devastated lands. Hot weather.” He shrugged, and there was something odd about the way he spoke. Just a moment earlier, he was aggressive. Now he was calm, composed. Back in control.

“I remember journeying for a really long while… Months in Nevarra, where my father and I took a ship to Ferelden. I remember being in the deck of the ship most of the time, which was fine. But one day they let us up to the main area of the ship, and when I looked around, that sea that never ended--” The elf shuddered, then rubbed hands on his own arms, adjusting the leathers around him. “That’s when I first used magic. Nearly set the ship on fire. First thing I know when we’re disembarking at the port in Highever, Templars are already waiting.”

“And your family?”

“Father.” The mage corrected. “My mother died, I was a baby.” He swallowed dryly. “My father got lucky, I guess. No need to raise a kid on his own. Maker knows where he is. Doesn’t matter either way. Mages aren’t allowed to keep in touch.” Alec shrugged, sipping his canteen.

“Did you live in an alienage, in the Anderfels?”

“In Hossberg, yes. For a while.” Alec didn't look at him. “And in a small village, too. Before we left.”

Honey eyes narrowed inconspicuously. There was truth in the story, Zevran did not doubt that, but he could tell it wasn’t a _true_ story.

It took a liar to know another.

“So you're a seasoned traveler?” Zevran asked with a suspiciously raised brow.

“I didn't say I remember much, now did I? I was a child.” Alec huffed. “What do _you_ remember from when you were five?”

Too much. Too many hours spent cleaning the floors of the brothel, washing linen and chopping vegetables for dinner. Too many different perfumes, and far too harsh beatings for the smallest of stains left on the whores’ clothes, or for peeking through the keyhole when one shouldn't be out. The screams of pleasure and pain both, the humiliation that the Donna put the kids and most of the whores trough. Some of them were simply dying to let off that built up frustration on someone else, and what better target than the kids no one cared about?

Zevran shrugged, looking down at the puddles on the cemented floor of the temple.

“I grew up in a whorehouse, my friend. A simple enough existence, if you ignored the occasional beating. There was always music and rustling of feet. Not to mention the cat fights amongst the whores. I remember it all rather well. I honed many a skill from young age... ” He didn't miss the frown on Alec’s red brows -- Was the mage appalled at the implications?

Zevran dismissed it with exaggerated laughter. “Such as pick pocketing, yes?”

Orchard eyes narrowed at him. Alec looked as though he was debating whether or not to ask something, but a growling noise snapped both of their attention to the left.

Zevran’s hand was already on the hilt of his dagger when Alec chuckled. “Sounds like a bear, doesn’t it? That's Alistair snoring.” His shoulders quaked with laughter.

“A rugged fellow like him…” Zevran found himself smiling. Taliesen snored like that too. A lump knotted his throat, and he gulped silently, shaking his head to send memories away.

“Maker forbid, I hope I don't have to share a tent with him again. I'll even pray for no more rain.”

How ironic. “If that has been your tactic from the start, my friend, I'm afraid your prayers haven't been heard at all.” Alec knitted his red brows in confusion and Zevran elaborated. “I do remember you telling me that it wouldn't rain all week.”

The mage shrugged, a mischievous grin on his lips. “That's what you get for trusting a Circle mage’s weather forecast, innit? Serves you right.”

Served him right... All of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the lies begin! o.o  
> Aaaaaaaaaand I'm sorry to all of you hoping for Zev/Alec tent sharing >D Not today.  
> I have strong feelings about Zev and Leli's friendship, though -- So I hope you guys like it too!


	6. Getting to Redcliffe

**SIX  
** Getting to Redcliffe

 

Zevran decided he hated marching every day. He woke up feeling weak and unwilling -- the bedroll warm and blessed. It helped that this was the first time not sleeping outside in a while, and he had an extra set of furs over his body. Leliana had risen early and, at the slightest movement he had jumped awake, ready to slit someone’s throat -- Only to find the Orlesian woman draping her furs on top of him. He drifted back into sleep in a matter of seconds once she was gone from the tent, his knife always on the ready underneath the pillow.  

It was no longer raining, and even the cement floor didn't feel too bad. It’d have been good if he could just stay there. But the rustling of feet and the buzzing conversation was hard to ignore. And even more so the fact he didn't have a choice.

Get up. Get dressed. Do what must be done. Be useful.

He rolled around, hid his face behind the furs, covered his ears.

What was even the point? There was no purpose to this but dying gruesomely. There was no freedom, no atonement, no deeper meaning to be found. No Maker had set him on this path.

The warden should have killed him. But even dying was too laborious… Too taxing. If only he could just stop existing, suddenly and painlessly... Like throwing a whole bucket of water over a fire.

But he didn't even deserve to die like amber -- Too easy. No. He deserved an end nastier than _hers_. He deserved to be torn in pieces. If the Maker existed, that's what He would have in store. No pleasures of the flesh, no spirits to numb the pain, no Antivan leather or Orlesian silks.

Get up. Get dressed. Get armed. Daggers, boots, armor, hair.

Zevran buried his face in the pillow. He'd had worse days. He'd had better days, too… And there had been those he couldn't rise from bed at all. But an inn in Rialto Bay wasn't far enough to wither away. Taliesen had found him there.

Now Taliesen was far enough. He was gone. Zevran was alone. Or he wished he were.

But _Guilt_ found him anywhere.

Zevran got up, got dressed, got ready. There were many miles to cover to Redcliffe… And fewer and fewer people or Darkspawn on the road as they neared the village.

The prospect of trading the mud of the Imperial Highway for an inn should have lifted his spirits, but all he could focus on was the pain of blisters on his feet. He cringed with every step, but when Alec asked him what was wrong, he dismissed it with a wave of a hand and a flippant remark.

Zevran didn't want them to think him a liability.

And these Maker-forsaken Wardens marched forward without pause as if days of walking and a crappy stormy night hadn't taken a toll on their feet and stamina at all. Not even Alec looked half as tired as Leliana and him.

Nothing was ever simple, though. It was foolish to expect to be received in the Castle with good spirits, a promise of help against the Blight and a warm bed in which to rest. So it came as little surprise when a weary looking guard tried to bar their way into the town. The man had no armor on, and his stance was far from what one would expect from a well-trained soldier.

“If you’re dealing with Darkspawn threat, this is what we’re here for.” Alec regarded the man with his head held high, raw confidence dripping from every word. “We’re no defenseless travelers, and I’m here to see the Arl himself, to discuss matters pertaining to the Civil War and the Blight.”

It was all for naught. The guard shook his head. “So you haven’t heard? The Arl is sick--”

“I know.” The mage interrupted him. “I also happen to be a skilled healer.”

“No, you don’t understand! The Castle has been closed off for days!” The man sounded nearly hopeless. Desperate. “The Arl could be dead for all we know! When anyone tries to get close to it, creatures -- Monsters! They come out of the Castle and slay anyone approaching. They also spawn from the walls every night and attack the village until dawn! For days now, everyone’s been fighting… And _dying_.”

Morrigan scoffed next to him. “Apparently everyone seems to agree that a Blight is the perfect time to start killing each other. Marvelous, really.”

Precisely when you needed someone, they weren't available. “Now that’s just typical, isn’t it?” Zevran huffed, following the group into the steep village when the guard urged them to meet the Bann.

It was banns, arls and teyrns, in that increasing order of power, wasn’t it so? At least Ferelden royalty titles were less complicated than Antivan politics.

“So this Bann is the Arl’s brother?” Alec asked his fellow warden. “Do you know this one too?” Alistair nodded at both questions, and the third piqued Zevran’s interest. “Does he know of your claim?”

“He might as well-- Wait. What do you mean, my _claim_?”

“You know...” Alec peeked over his own shoulder, likely apprehensive that the rest of them could overhear the conversation. They all could, and the mage lowered his tone. “What we discussed last night.”

Alistair chuckled, fidgeting with his sword. “I am not claiming anything but a bed, if we get to rent a room at the inn for the night. Oh, and some cheese. I’m putting my name on the cheese.”

“Fine. Don’t help me, then.” The redheaded elf grumbled. “I’ll figure out a way of convincing this bann Tea, Talgan -- Whatever, on my own.”

“Teagan.” Alistair corrected him. “I’m coming with you. But I’m just a nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Wardens. That’s what we agreed, isn’t it?” He scratched the back of his neck. “Besides, we have the treaties.”

“Right. And we can just pretend that the Wardens weren’t banned from Ferelden for almost two hundred years. And Loghain hasn't put a bounty on both our heads.” Alec scoffed. “He certainly won’t notice my ears, or the staff. Just as no one else has since I’ve left the Circle. And since I’m precisely the kind of person he hopes to discuss Ferelden politics with... We've definitely covered all bases here, innit?”

“You'll be lucky if they don't ask you to clean their boots.” Zevran chimed in. He could understand where Alec’s sarcasm was coming from. Whatever clothes an elf wore, it’d be a sunny day in the Void when humans, especially the blue blooded sort, didn’t take an elf for a servant. A Crow as he may be, he knew very well what it was to be thought uncouth and uncultured simply for his sharp ears, whatever clothes he may wear or airs he may put on.

“Teagan isn’t like that,” Alistair protested, then turned to his friend. A smug smile on his lips, brows going up. “You do the talking and I’ll hold your hand. You know -- For moral support.”

“That’s what you’re here for, is it? Hand holding?”

Alistair chuckled. “Don’t forget delivering unpleasant news and witty one-liners.”

Alec sunk his staff into the muddy ground to support himself as he walked down the steep slope leading to the village. “I’m counting not pulling rank as unpleasant news, Alistair. But fine. We’ll do what we can with what we have.”

“It’s not like my heritage counts for much… I’m still just a Warden... And the bastard of some chap who didn't know how to keep it in his pants and didn't care enough to even speak a handful of words to me.”  

“So are the rest of us.” Alec scoffed.  

Well. Zevran hadn't met his own father. Morrigan was apparently raised alone by a legendary Witch of the Wilds. He wasn't sure about Leliana, but he could swear Alec had said he'd come to Ferelden with his father.

Or had he really?

The mage went on. “But none of us can bargain resources because of it.”

“I don't know. The Witch could.”

“ _The Witch_ can hear your pathetic conversation.” Morrigan snapped at them.

Alistair ignored her. “Her mother is an even scarier Witch. Why not tell Loghain she’s is going to eat his traitorous face? _Flemeth_ ’s gotta be a more exciting name to drop than some dead King's.”

The human turned around quickly, his entire face growing redder than Alec’s hair, and Zevran could only guess he hadn’t meant for the cat to leave the bag.

So Alistair was a _King_ ’s bastard! Now that was some interesting development. He grinned wofishly at the human Warden.

"Is it prince Alistair, then?" Zevran jested.

"Haha, very funny." Alistair shook his head. 

“‘Tis enlightening, honestly.” Morrigan disdained. “Seeing as your foolish King allowed himself to be betrayed and killed, it never occurred to me that he were a bright man. The apple must not fall far from the tree indeed.”

Zevran snickered, shrugging at Leliana when the Orlesian woman narrowed eyes at him. _Don’t you have an ounce of respect?_ \-- Her gaze seemed to ask.

Hardly.

“King Cailan was not my father,” Alistair grumbled. “He was my brother. Half-brother.”

“Oh, two rotten fruits fallen off the same tree.” Morrigan was ruthless. “The deserter King, ‘tis not so? Were I your father, I too would suddenly vanish from Ferelden to avoid the shame of _that_ being discovered.”

“You're a lonely, bitter bitch, Morrigan.” Alistair fumed under his breath, quickening his pace and heading into the village towards the local Chantry without looking back at any of them.

Leliana glared at the witch. “Don’t you think you’ve gone a little too far?”

Morrigan simply shrugged, the two women following Alec towards the same Chantry.

Zevran lingered outside just for a brief moment, taking in the surroundings of that poor Ferelden city and its citizens. He recognized the smell in the air as easily as he could get a woman to wriggle under his tongue. It was the rancid aroma of blood that lingered on people's garments after tending to the injured, or handling corpses. It blended with the stinging smell of smoke, of charred flesh and fresh death.

Tears and sweat completed the picture.

On the stairs of the Chantry a middle-aged woman wept. In front of it, half a dozen men wielded old and rusty wooden bows -- A pitiful attempt at archery if he had ever seen one. Some of them could barely keep a proper stance and perhaps hadn't had a decent night of sleep in days. Zevran would know what exhaustion looked like.

He was no stranger to desperation either, and this whole place reeked of it.

And yet this Bann Teagan called teyrn Loghain the desperate one.

“So you don’t believe what he said?” Alec asked the Bann.

“What, that he pulled his men in order to save them? That Cailan risked everything in name of glory? I don't.”

Morrigan scoffed. “Another foolish one.”

Alistair sneered at the Wilds witch, returning his attention to the man who had recognized him from childhood. Teagan continued. “I rode to Redcliffe to bring word of teyrn Cousland’s death. I doubt it's a coincidence that the only power to reckon with Loghain’s would be murdered by his own servants. Bryce was never disliked by his people, and this doesn’t sit well… If there is to be a civil war…”

“How can Loghain, or anyone else, even think about civil war? Don’t they realize we’re in the middle of the Blight?” Alistair asked.

“Perfect time to force people’s allegiance towards an uncharismatic, but battle-renowned leader,” Alec mentioned. “It’s happened before. Kordillus II wouldn’t have ruled Orlais for long if it weren’t for the Second Blight.”

The young mage might have lived a confined life, but his books had taught him something of politics.   

That Teagan considered Loghain the traitor was a good sign, but it took them nowhere all the same. The man was still just a Bann, with little resources to offer and a much bigger problem in his hands.

“With Cailan dead and Loghain starting a war over the throne, no one responds to my call for help. Alistair, I hate to ask, but… You and your friend are Grey Wardens -- No one makes it to the Grey Warden ranks if they aren’t exceptional in battlefield. Everyone knows that. And we desperately need the help of warriors right now.”

“Remarkable coincidence, really.” Zevran couldn’t help but mention, a scoff between his teeth.

The arl who clearly opposed Loghain _just so happened_ to be sick. His village _just so happened_ to be attacked every night by ghastly creatures. It would be comical, honestly… If it weren’t so painfully obvious that this had been orchestrated somehow. Any Crow would be able to tell as much -- They'd all been the executors of similar plans before... Bringing down entire families and ruining their lands, covering several bases one after the other. Murdering the target, poisoning his or her heir, destroying their harvest or ruining their reputation to sink their business... It was all in the Crows' game.

“What exactly are those creatures?” Alec asked.

“Some call them the walking dead. They’re decomposing corpses returning to life with a hunger for human flesh.”

Zevran snickered, unable to hold back a snide remark. “Well, if it’s just human -- Why even bother?”

He could swear he saw the corner of Alec’s lips twitch upwards.

“Forgive me if I did not make myself clear.” Teagan cleared his throat, a glimpse of annoyance in the way he creased his brows. “They’re attacking every living person -- Human, elf, dwarf! It does not matter. Yesterday I found the creatures attacking those fleeing on their own, even during daytime. Whatever lies in the Castle wants the village dead.” Teagan insisted.

“Then I say let them.” Morrigan wasn’t keen on helping either. “It is pointless to help villagers in an impossible battle. We have enough to contend with.”

“Says she who doesn’t even know who our King was,” Alistair grumbled, resting a large palm on his ginger companion’s shoulder. “The Grey Wardens don’t stand a chance against Loghain without Arl Eamon and Redcliffe’s support, Alec.”

The mage nodded but turned back to the Bann. “Say the Arl is past the point of saving. Who is the new regent?”

Teagan ran an exasperated hand through his own hair. “I don’t know. If his son, Connor, lives. I suppose he will be the Arl and I’ll need to help him with it. If he’s… Well, I don’t want to think of it that way.”

“You better.” Alec retorted. “If we’re putting ourselves -- the two last surviving Grey Wardens -- in the line for this village and its ruler, I want your word, written in a renewed treaty, that Redcliffe and the Arling will stand with the Order to fight the Darkspawn.”

Alistair’s hand squeezed Alec’s shoulder. “D-do we need to go that far? I know Teagan. He-he’s a man of his word.”

“Good for you. But _I_ don’t know _Teagan_.” The elf plucked a parchment from his pouch and handed it to the nobleman. “Draw up a treaty in resemblance to this, and we will only leave this village when the creatures are gone, or we ourselves are dead.”

Zevran kind of wished he had flirted harder with Leliana the night before. Who knows, maybe he wouldn’t have to die in a dry spell… The thought of heading up to the tavern and finding a pretty wench and some tasty spirits did cross his mind, but it barely took root. He had no coin, nor time. Most of all, he didn’t care that much. He was just too tired, blisters stinging, feet dragging on the wood as though his legs each weighted more than the trunk of an oak.

Was that how _she_ felt, walking those silent miles between Taliesen and him, knowing something was wrong?

And when something was wrong among Crows…

“Corpses.” Alec said once they were out of the Chantry, looking ahead at the village, glancing at the silhouette of the Castle up the hill. He turned to Morrigan. “Nevarran art?”

“‘Tis likely, indeed.” The woman nodded. “Surprising that you would know it at all, given where you come from. I would think Necromancy would be a forbidden art for your Chantry.”

“It is. I’ve only read about it in books.” He knocked the base of his staff on the floor. “How do the creatures fare against magic itself?”

The Witch knitted her brows. “I should have the answer to this because--? What images of _Wild Witches_ have you conjured in your confined little sheep mind that you would think we need raise the dead in the Wilds?”

The elven mage scoffed. “Honestly? Now who’s the one being prejudicial of obscure arts?”

“Hardly.” Her voice was velvety, and even laced with some challenge? Or some _fun_. If Zevran could go that far. They were enjoying each other’s barbs, weren’t they? “I was simply pointing out your bias.”

“Am I the only one thinking this, like… Reaally isn’t the right time?” Alistair squealed at them both.

Alec only heeded the Witch. “Face the enemy head on, isn’t that what you said?”

“Is it? I can’t recall.” She smiled coyly. “I’d study the enemy first, were I you.”

“Then come with me.”

“Wait, what,” Alistair flailed in exasperation. “Go where? Where are you going? You promised to help the village!”

“I’ll fare better if I know what I’m up against.” The mage answered quickly, turning around to face their group. “Leliana, Zevran. Get your bows and come with me too. We’ll need ranged offense if magic doesn’t work.” He patted his fellow Warden on the arm. “Alistair, you’re acquaintances with this Ser Perth. Discuss tactics with him.” His green eyes then landed on the Qunari. “Sten, if you were really part of an army, then I'll trust you're good with strategy. Make sure we get a map of the village and that whatever their plan is, it won’t get us all dead by dawn.”

“But Alec--!”

“We’ll be back, Alistair.” Alec cocked his head confidently, nodding for the rest of them to get on their way. “Oh --” He turned back, a finger pointing between the two warriors, a shit-eating grin on his lips. “Do hold Sten’s hand if you need.”

Leliana giggled at Alistair’s whining in the distance. They were still within earshot when Sten snarled at Alistair, but the best part was Morrigan’s displeased groan.

“The assassin and the foolish girl are hardly needed,” she told Alec. “We have magic at our disposal.”

“Oh?” Zevran snickered, an elbow nudging at Leliana’s side. “Are we perhaps interrupting the mages’ mating call?”

Morrigan glared at him, murder in her paint-adorned citrine colored eyes. “‘Tis obvious who shall become the next corpse attacking the village.”

“If it’s Necromancy, who are the corpses?” Alec was too focused on the task to pay their banter any heed. “The villagers seem to be burning their dead.” He stopped on the upwards slope, holding the rail of the bridge quite tightly before traversing it. Was he… Trembling?

Zevran shook his head, and looked again. Alec was past the bridge now, and holding his staff too tightly to tell. The elven mage looked away at the horizon. “Is there a cemetery nearby? Or is someone killing people to raise them?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Morrigan shrugged, leading the way towards the Castle.

Barely could they see the walls of the fortress, however, and already a suspicious fog emerged from the gates. With a hand gesture, Alec told them to halt, then cast paralysis glyphs and barriers. Zevran took his stance, his silverite longbow tight in his grip, an arrow nocked and ready to fly. The three things that emerged from the mist were rotten and foul, dragging their own limbs and shrieking loudly like pigs in a slaughterhouse. They were clad in helmets and rusty armor, and held maces in their hands -- And nothing else.

“Hold.” Alec instructed, conjuring ice to freeze the creatures. But the undead shook it off without effort, continuing the pursuit with more speed than before. One got caught in a glyph, another raced towards the elven mage -- Knocked out cold by Leliana’s precise arrow, lodged deep into its eye and skull. “Leliana! I said _hold_.”

“Sorry,” she shrugged, eyebrows going up apologetically. “But it does go down with an arrow.”

And it went down with Morrigan’s magic too -- Caught in some sort of hex prison of her doing, the undead wriggled and shrieked, contorting so hard that its bones dislodged. When all three were on the floor, Alec took a step towards the dismembered one.

“Alec,” Leliana cautioned, arrow nocked and ready. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

The mage flickered his hand dismissively, kneeling by the shambled corpse and picking up the gooey bones, which turned into dust at the mere touch. Zevran would give the Warden this -- He had guts.

“It’s not Necromancy.” He said, looking up at the Witch. “It can’t be, can it?”

“‘Tis the work of a Fade force.”

“A demon?”

Morrigan huffed. “The foolish, superstitious names you use are-”

“Hate to interrupt your courtship,” Zevran teased, looking up at the growing fog. “But it seems they’re very good hosts. They won’t let us proceed without proper escorting.”

There were six walking corpses this time.

“Right.” The mage stood up. “I guess there’s really no getting into the Castle.” With a flicker of his staff, he pulled soil from the ground, digging up a hole right where the corpses were about to step. The creatures fell, but climbed their way back up with teeth and claws, resuming the attack as if it had been no deterrent at all.

“Pathetic.” Morrigan scoffed and, without any warning, morphed her two legs into eight.

Leliana squirmed a step away, disgusted. “I hate when she does that.”

Zevran had to admit it wasn't particularly pretty to watch, but it was far easier to shoot the creatures when they were locked in Morrigan’s web than when they were trotting mindlessly towards them at full speed.

And suddenly six were twelve, with twice as many emerging from the walls for each one they killed.

“Andraste’s tits!” Alec exclaimed, taking a step towards the creatures. Zevran followed suit, already trading arrows for daggers, ready to defend the mage in melee. “I’d suggest taking a step back, all of you,” the mage said. Swirling his staff, he conjured up a gigantic ball of fire, hovering above them, growing bigger as the undead got closer. “It’s the first time I try this.”

“A fine tactic.” Zevran chuckled nervously, a drop of sweat down his spine. “Provided we don’t end up charred ourselves! Or pursued by _flaming_ undead instead!!”

Alec laughed wholeheartedly. “Then you better have enough arrows, Zev. And know how to shoot them with your eyes closed, cause I’ve got a feeling this is going to be -- Quite explosive.” And the damned Warden winked at him before unleashing a firestorm upon the shrieking undead. The fire so close, so hot and so bright that it pushed Zevran several steps back, an arm coming to his own face to protect himself from the endless bolts of  _storming_  fire. The smoke around them was more than just the undead’s mist now, but also the steam of the flames that burnt the creatures' bones.

Their pained screams were so loud and ghastly that Zevran wanted to shield his ears as well as his eyes.

When the smoke subdued, Leliana’s cough blending with his own, Zevran took in the sight of over ten charred limbs on the floor -- The ginger elf laughing hysterically, covered in ashes from head to toes. “Now _this_ \--” He puffed out air, supporting himself with his staff, a finger pointed at the Giant spider. “ _This_ is how it's done!”

Morrigan morphed back into human form. “If wasting all your energy in tricks for show is how you wish to go, suit yourself.”

“If I pass out, a bear can carry me.”

“You are delusional,” Morrigan said, but she smirked.

“Alright!” Alec coughed into a closed fist, turning on his heels. “Let’s go back and get the village ready for battle.” He cleaned his face on the sleeve of his clothes, taking in deep breaths to ease the laughing. Or steady his heartbeat -- From the looks of him. “Let’s fucking hope this shit goes better than Ostagar.”

Zevran took it back. The Warden didn’t have _guts_. Alec was fearless in the way the desperate usually were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly smaller chapter to start Redcliffe's quest! =D 
> 
> Hey guys -- I am looking for someone who would be interested in beta-reading the next chapters of this fic for me. It would be much much appreciated and I also offer to beta-read other DA fics you might have in return! <3 You'd get to read stuff firsthand? hehe Please let me know if you'd like to help me out! <3


	7. Attack at Nightfall

**SEVEN  
** Attack at Nightfall

 

When they returned from their study of the undead, Alec conferred with Alistair and Sten. The qunari showed him a map and offered strategic advice, and the human gave him an idea of how many trained men were available. Not many. The numbers were disheartening. Most of Redcliffe’s Knights had left on a quest for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, and that left them with only five trained men. Another half a dozen had died in the past days in their attempt to defend the populace.

“Morale is low. The number of Knights in the village dropped to half over the week, and they’ve lost hope for anything to be salvaged within the Castle. They think--” Alistair gulped. “They think the Arl is dead... They want the Maker’s protection. Some sort of glimpse of hope that He hasn’t forgotten, but... I’ve talked to the Revered Mother and she won’t give them more than the usual blessings. Says she can’t lie to them -- A battle is a battle.”

“Well, it is.” Alec shrugged, using a piece of wet cloth to wipe ashes off his freckled skin. “At least we stand a good chance here. Ostagar was a fucking gamble.”

What were Zevran’s odds? He wondered, sitting on the floor of the chantry. He’d taken off his boots and spread some healing balm on the soles of his feet, hoping it’d ease the pain. Leliana counted her arrows next to him. Zevran looked up at the two Wardens as they talked.

“These men need to _believe_ it’s not a gamble for them, Alec.” Alistair insisted. “If they thought themselves protected, it'd do wonders for their courage. I _know_ that. The Templars do what no knights would for a lord... Because they believe they’re doing the _Maker’s_ work.”

“You know, as much as I cringe at the thought of Templars and inflaming faith, you've got a point there. These people need to believe they’ll win against evil tonight.” Alec nodded. “Did you tell the Revered Mother that?”

“I… Er…” Alistair fidgeted. “Not really?”

Alec put his cloth down, drew in a deep, long breath and exhaled heavily, eyes rolling up their sockets. “Why in the Void not?!”

“Well, I--” Alistair stuttered. “I-- I didn’t want to force the good woman to lie.”

Zevran had to laugh. Alec’s face was fucking priceless.

The mage closed his green eyes. “Bloody Andraste,” he sighed. “Leave it to me, and you know how this will turn out.”

“I’ll go.” Leliana stood up quickly, almost desperately. “Alistair and I will talk to the good Revered Mother. Right? Right. No need for you to get involved, Alec.”

Alec nodded, running hands through his disheveled hair and undoing the braid. He removed the ribbon that tied the ponytail and let his hair fall down. Gaze lost somewhere, the young mage combed long fingers through the strands, sweeping ashes off his fiery hair.

Zevran didn’t notice he was staring until those orchard eyes were on his.

“What are you doing?” Alec asked.

“Considering skinny-dipping in the lake on this wonderful day, yes?” Zevran’s tone dripped with teasing sarcasm. “Perhaps you should join me, my dear Warden. Make the best of it, wash that beautiful long mane of yours.”

“Absolutely,” Alec agreed flippantly, trading the wooden bench for the floor next to him. The mage inspected his blistered feet. “Cut them open. I can heal the wounds. Should be better than this balm. It won’t do much.”

Thank the Maker for small blessings. Alec did know how to work his magic, and Zevran’s feet hurt way less once it was done. Climbing down the stairs of the Chantry was no longer such a taxing task.

But they still had many tasks to accomplish before nightfall. Morrigan had agreed to get a few health poultices done for their party, and Alec had asked him and Sten along to meet the mayor.

“So, who is the man we want?” Zevran asked, massaging the left side of his neck, rolling his stiff shoulders as if he’d been straining his muscles just holding himself upright.

“The one with the mustache in the middle of the square?” Alec guessed.

The man with the horrible mustache and the shitty attitude, it turned out.

“So you’re one of them Grey Wardens, eh?” The mayor grumbled, crossing arms over his chest. “I heard you was all dead along with the King.”

Alec squinted eyes at him. “From your tone, one would almost think you actually heard we _killed_ the King.”

“If the Wardens are _foreign_ like some say, now, who wouldn’t?” The mayor sneered.

Oh, but he was fishing for a fight.

The mage managed to keep his cool, smiling at the human. “Yet somehow most of them are dead, and your Loghain isn’t. Maybe the village should wait for _his_ aid to come, then.” Alec fastened his staff to the strap across his back. “I'll take note of that and step aside.”

“Look, wait.” Dickface Mayor muttered, holding hands up. “We’re not going to turn down anyone who wants to help. Don’t take me for being an ingrate or nothing.”

“That’s good.” Zevran pulled a pocket knife from his waistband sheath, swiftly and masterfully spinning the blade between deft fingers, glancing up threateningly at Ser Mustache. “The survival rate of ingrates is remarkably low, so I hear.”

Having the Warden’s back seemed like a good way to repay him for the healed feet. Besides, it didn’t hurt Zevran’s own cause to make a clear stand on the Wardens’ side.

If he wanted to live, that was.

Drinking himself into his own grave like the old blacksmith they had to deal with didn’t sound unappealing either, but his nose twitched unpleasantly when the drunk man pointed out they hadn’t _sounded_ like _elves_ through the door.

“We sounded like what, exactly?” Zevran snarled, patience thinning the longer they spent in this Maker-forsaken village full of pricks.

This was where Alistair had been raised, wasn’t it? Zevran shuddered to think.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” The blacksmith’s words were slurred. “And unless you care to get besotted with me, you can fuck off.”

“Why are you locked in here? Drinking your sorrows, is it?” Alec’s tone was surprisingly understanding. “Are you worried about what’s going to happen tonight?”

“Huh, I could care less about this village. It could all burn!”

The mage rose a red brow. “Get drunk, watch it burn? That’s your plan? Do you want to die?”

“Maybe.” The blacksmith slumped down on a chair.

“Why?” Alec pulled himself a seat in front of the human.

Prompted, the man told them of his daughter, one of the Arlessa’s maids. He mentioned the gossip she’d heard, the rumors of magic in the castle, the arl’s sudden sickness. Zevran took his time watching the Warden, trying to learn the way his red brows creased with suspicion or green eyes flickered with interest. The little twitches of his mouth. The Warden liked reading books. He liked reading people.

The mage intertwined fingers of both hands, elbows resting on his bony knees, bending forward to look at Owen straight in the eyes. “You can’t help your daughter locked up in here.” He said. “The only way to get to the Castle is defending the village from the undead first. I would know, I tried. And if these men have better weapons, we will win tonight.”

“Huh,” the old man scoffed. “Maybe it’s all his drink talking, elf, but you almost sound like you believe what you’re saying.” The smith shrugged. “But as long as my daughter is in the Castle and nobody's doing anything to help me, I see no reason to help anyone either. Go back to Murdock and tell him there’s nothing here for him.” The old man waved a full tankard around, half of it spilling on the floor. Such a waste. “They’ve already taken everything!”

Zevran took a good look around. The forge was empty and abandoned, and it didn’t look like it’d been lit in days. The shop was bare. But something wasn’t right. It looked too _meticulously_ bare.

“Everything?” Alec asked. “A bunch of old weapons that are falling apart after a week of battle, is that all you had?”

“And if it were?” Owen grumbled, refusing to look at any of them in the eye.

Just as well. It gave Alec a chance to glance back at Zevran, red eyebrows raising quickly, head pointing inconspicuously towards the smith, orchard eyes full of suspicion.

Well awarded suspicion. That old man was definitely lying through his teeth.

Zevran nodded back at Alec in confirmation. “Then you must be some shit of a smith,” he egged the man on.

“He's old and drunk, Zevran.” Alec said, standing up. The corner of his lips was curved upwards just a tad. “Best if you retire anyway, Serah.” The mage turned on his heel, lowering his tone -- But still loud enough to be heard, only pretending to be whispering. “Even if he agreed, doesn’t look like he can’t make anything half decent in his state. We can probably find a better smith.”

“You insolent--!” Owen fell into their hands like an overripe fruit. He stood up quickly, managing not to trip on his feet. “Tell you what! You want the real goods? I’ve got some valuables hidden away, maybe… Good stuff. Better quality smithing than you’ll find in all of the arling! But if you want me to dig them up, there’s something I want you to do for me first.” He rested his tankard on the wooden surface with a loud thud. “If you promise me to look for my Valena, I’ll give you want you want.”

The triumphant smirk on Alec’s lips was so contagious Zevran had to purse his own not to give them away. 

The mage swallowed his smirk before he turned around and offered his hand in a shake, likely thinking the matter solved. “I’ll try my best.”

Owen flailed his drunken hands about. “No, no! Not _try_ . I want a promise that you _will_ find her! Murdock said he’d do his best, and he hasn’t done shit! That’s not fucking good enough, is it? You either promise me this, or you can sod off.”

Maker’s breath, could one single place breed any more ingrates than this? 

“Parshaara.” Sten grumbled by his side. “This is why you Southerners are bound to fail. The tamassrans would never allow a member of the Qun to stray from their role like this.”

“What would your Qun do?” Alec asked.

“Re-education.” Sten answered, his expression ever unchanging.

The mage frowned. “Are you going to explain what that is?”

“No.” 

Alec placed an index and a thumb on the bridge of his own nose. His patience was also running thin. “You know... Since you don't want to help. I could just kill you.” He told Owen. “There are far more lives at stake than yours anyway.”

 _Now_ they were talking. A rumbling chuckle escaped Zevran’s lips, heart racing just a tad bit with the thrill of an impending kill. His palm landed on the hilt of the dagger on his waist belt. “I’m all for the killing. If we’re taking votes, that is.” He confessed, not an ounce of shame or pained little consciousness. The damned smith was a pain in the ass. He reeked, and he’d wasted too much of their time already. The man wanted to die. Why not grant him that already? “If you wish, I’ll get it done for you, my dear Warden. I’ll even give you a friend’s discount for the job.”

“If you’re going to kill me you can just go right on ahead,” the blacksmith opened his arms out.

“No. But you better have something of value in here.” Alec told him, raising his staff up in the air. Before the old man could take a single step towards him to defend himself, the mage had cast a paralysis glyph beneath the human’s feet, and his body froze like stone. Owen couldn't move a single muscle, and Alec turned to Zevran and Sten, pointing to the ground. “He said ‘ _dig it up_ ’, didn’t he? Search the floor.”

“No bloodletting then?” Zevran asked with a wicked grin. "No fun."

There was a large trunk on a corner of the smith, and dragging it aside revealed a locked trapdoor. Alec fumbled through Owen’s clothes for the key, and in less than half the time they’d wasted trying to convince the stubborn shithead to cooperate, they’d managed to find a large stack of finely crafted weaponry. Needless to say, Whiny Drunk Smith was beyond angered when the paralysis spell ran off, but Dickface Mustache Mayor was overjoyed with the bundle of sturdy new bows, shields, swords and daggers that they carried outside for the militia.

They weren't even done distributing the new weapons when Leliana returned. She had ‘blessed’ amulets for the Knights of Redcliffe, but a request from some crying lady that they look for her lost brother who had strayed away from her care in the chaos of last night's battle.

“I don’t have time for people’s little personal problems right now, Leliana.” Alec flicked his hand at her. “I need to find a dwarf who’s some war veteran if we actually want the rest of the village to stand a chance.”

The Orlesian woman ruffled her own hair, pursing her lips and lifting eyebrows at the Warden. “I might… have promised it? To her? That we would help?”

Alec rolled his eyes. Zevran could see how tense the Warden’s shoulders were, his clothes still grey with ashes. “If you promised, then you  get it done.” He walked past her, and Zevran followed suit. Sten had stayed behind to help Murdock prepare the common folk for battle. Even with the new weapons, they were less of an asset than the experienced dwarf and his hired goons, and the elven mage had zero patience for their bullshit. He used his magic to threaten the dwarf and his men into joining the rest of the village to fight.

When it was all said and done, Alec sat on the stairs leading up to the stilt houses. He looked down at the margins of the lake underneath the wooden steps, then he jumped to his feet like a cat that had been scared by a cucumber.

What had spooked him?

Before Zevran could try to figure it out, the mage started walking away. “Is there a tavern in this shithole?” 

“There is _always_ a tavern in every village, my friend.” Zevran purred, following after him and placing a hand on his shoulder as they walked. “Especially in the shittiest ones.”

The mage smiled wearily at him, saying nothing of the tentative touch that lingered until they neared the steep slope which led up to Redcliffe’s watering hole. Not surprisingly, it was almost empty -- A few old geezers discussed the undead and the attacks in a corner, soaked as raisins in what Zevran could only guess was poor quality ale, from the smell of it.

“Do we ask at the bar,” Alec whispered into his ear, fumbling his pockets for change. “Or is there a serving girl?”

Zevran scoffed, a mocking grin blossoming on his lips. “So, the young traveler has never been to a tavern before? Did he skip the number one traveling commandment in the books? _Thou shalt always stop by the watering hole,_ yes?” He snickered, noticing a rouge hue grace Alec’s freckled cheeks, the red darkening with his every word. So that’s what it took to make the Warden blush? Teasing and mocking, rather than flirting? He could work with that. “The mighty Grey Warden is tavernless, as it were?”

“I was eight when I was taken to the Circle.” The blushing elf protested. Zevran wasn’t sure what was more adorable, the fact the boy’s face matched his hair or the crease between his brows. “And I _have_ been to a tavern, if you must know. In Lothering. It was packed full with refugees, locals, Chantryfolk and Loghain’s men. I even got into a brawl in a tavern!” He straightened himself up, boasting. “I almost got kicked out.”

“Maker! That is indeed so adventurous.” Zevran teased with a chuckle. “And I’m assuming you didn’t get kicked out in the end, yes? A pity to kick out someone so very charming.”

Alec blushed harder. “I don’t know if you’re being sarcastic, or what.”

Zevran let out the warmest of laughs, much mirth found in teasing the mage. “Never, my good Warden.” His arm snaked around the scrawny elf, and he held him at the waist, leaning closer. “But I do think we desperately need to remedy your tavernless state.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m not fucking tavernless, you piece of shit assassin. Unless you mean it as in -- Not owning a fucking tavern.”

Oh, and the Warden swore harder when he was butthurt! Zevran was having too much fun with this and he didn’t even try to deny it, snickering at the ginger elf.

Not shying away from his touch, Alec dug his hands into his pockets and fished out some coins, counting them on his pale palm. “Think I can buy a tavern with ninety silvers?”

A loud laugh escaped Zevran’s lips, a bronzed hand going to his face and covering half of it at the absurdity of it. Did this Warden have no fucking idea how much an establishment cost? Did he really think he could buy a Maker-forsaken tavern for the same amount he’d purchase a mid-tier dagger? “Mm, you can certainly try.”

“I should check how business is first. Wouldn’t want to end up with a dead-end investment.”

Zevran scoffed. He had no clue whether the Warden was serious or not. He withdrew his touch, running fingers through blonde locks. “Because a dead-end village with a nightly spawn of Undead is certainly bound to be blooming in business...”

“Like Antiva blooms with flowers.” Alec teased back.

The sarcasm hadn’t deterred Alec at all, and Zevran followed him, as he sat with the drunk patrons at a corner, chiming in on their conversation. “Afternoon, lads.”

“More elves?” A man with ginger curls asked.

The one next to him elbowed his arm. “They’re the Grey Wardens, Tim. Have some respect.”

“Oh yeah! The Grey Wardens. I’m sorry about that,” Tim said, nodding at them. “It’s just that we ain’t got much elves around here… Less so when there’s undead all around. And there’s that suspicious one who’s been sitting over there all day, every day, for days,” he explained. “He got here just before the attacks started, too.”

Zevran looked over his shoulder, registering the brown haired archer he’d seen upon entering the tavern. A city elf, most definitely.

“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, but I’d be careful.” Alec leaned his back against the chair, chin nodding on Zevran’s direction. “This _elf_ right here happens to be a Dragon hunter.”

The elder one knitted his brows, glaring at them both. “A Dragon Hunter?”

Zevran shifted glances between the men and the lying Warden.

Alec shook his head indignantly. “Haven’t you heard of the Pentaghasts? The famous Nevarran Dragon hunters? Your ignorance does you much credit.” He almost sounded like Morrigan there at the end.

“I have.” Tim said. “And an elf ain’t look like a Pentaghast to me, now does he?”

“Do you make a point of being stupid?” The mage narrowed eyes at him. “I’ll have you know this elf here just happened to be Markus Pentaghast’s squire in his youth!”

“Most of the kills he claimed were in fact mine,” Zevran chimed in, playing the Warden’s game. He wouldn’t want to go near a fucking dragon if it killed him, and perhaps that was why the lie was so amusing. “You’d think that old, greasy fart could truly hop onto a Hivernal’s back to slay it?” His lips had curved upwards in a smirk, recalling old days of conning humans in the taverns in Rialto -- They used to work like a perfectly oiled machine, Taliesen, Rinna and him. He would never have that again, and an invisible hand squeezed at his heart. But that didn't stop him from following Alec's lead in this... Whatever the point was, if not money or information. 

The Warden pulled a necklace from underneath his shirt, a glass pendant with red liquid inside. “Zevran gave me this one. This is dragon blood -- What type was it again? A Vinsomer?” He asked, orchard eyes gleaming with mischief.

“An Abyssal. We hunted that one in the Free Marches. That’s when I got this scar,” Zevran stood up, lifting his jerkin just enough to show one of the largest scars on his body, just above his hipbone. The militiamen were wide-eyed. He had to contain himself not to burst up in laughter. “Wouldn’t recommend trying to climb one of those dragons, not without proper training.”

“And what’s a Dragon Hunter doing here?” One of the men asked suspiciously.

“Joining you in battle to defend _your_ village.” Alec placed both elbows on the wooden table. But whatever reaction he seemed to be expecting from the men, it never came. “I take it you’re ready for it?”

“Not nearly.” The man at the rightmost said. “Not nearly drunk enough to face those things one more night.”

Tim reclined back on his chair, huffing with indignance. “I still can’t fucking believe Lloyd won’t give us any ale for free!”

“Did you expect any different?” The older one asked. “He’s cheaper than an Antivan whore.”

Zevran’s eyebrows knitted. Hard. And the blade of the dagger he had been idly playing with found itself lodged in the wooden table, his nerves tensing with anger.

Alec looked at him, squinting those green eyes of his, but the rogue simply shrugged, putting on a charming smile. “Man knows his whores,” Zevran said, chuckling, playing the flippant part. As if he hadn't grown tired of hearing that. As if it didn’t boil the blood in his veins… As if he didn’t wish he could sink the sharp edge of his dagger into that stupid man’s eye, rather than the table. 

“You know what’s cheaper than an Antivan whore?” Alec asked. The three militiamen looked at him, waiting for a joke to follow. “Your mother.” The Warden scoffed. “If _you_ came out of her, she must have been the ugliest bitch in all of Ferelden. Maybe she had to _pay_ to get laid.”

The old geezer’s face fell, especially because the other two had cracked up in laughter.

It was a teenager's burn at best. But a burn nonetheless. Zevran snickered, delighting in the man’s embarrassment and displeasure.

“And what kind of cowards _need_ to be drunk to fight?” Now the Warden was egging them on.

“We’re not cowards!” Tim protested. “If you fought those things… You would know!”

Alec scoffed again, sitting on the edge of his seat and raising a red eyebrow. “What makes you think I haven’t?” He planted a palm on the wood, ice stemming from his fingertips towards the men’s drinks, crawling up the tankards until the whole table was almost an ice sculpture. The man on the right squealed, releasing his drink and jerking off his seat. The mage regarded them all with a cocky grin. “As you can see. We have some tricks up our sleeves, so you could stand to be a bit less cowardly, and slightly more confident. We will survive the night.”

The militiamen were dumbfounded.

One of them came down from the shock only to lament his frozen ale. “And I spent my last few coppers on that…”

“Oh, we’ve real fighters here tonight, have we? Not just more doomed souls come to drown their sorrows?” A velvety female voice landed on the shell of Zevran's ear. He turned around to appreciate the beauty that was the fiery haired barmaid. Maker, but Ferelden was crawling with redheads, it seemed. A rare sight back at home. Not that he was complaining. “If you’re here for a drink, you’ll have to talk to Lloyd. He’s got a tight grip on the spigots. I’m just here to keep the boys from mutiny.”

“They look like they’d rather be at the Chantry with the children.” Alec taunted, receiving a sneer in response from one of the militiamen. “Shouldn’t you be there as well?” He asked the woman.

“Later on, yes.” She smiled fondly at them. “Will you be fighting tonight?”

“Fighting. Winning.” Alec nodded, finally standing up and beckoning Zevran to do the same. 

The ice on the table melted, and all three men jerked upright, trying to avoid the water spilling down their pants.

The barmaid giggled. “You sound very confident. That’s… Good, I guess.”

While the militiamen grumbled and cursed the Warden, Alec followed the girl through the tavern. “So how is business here?”

“What business?” She asked with another giggle. “Without the castle soldiers or travelers, we’ve only got locals for customers. And you saw the militiamen over there. They ain’t got a copper to spend. It doesn’t even justify working, but Lloyd’s a greasy pig and if I didn’t need this job...”

“Doesn’t look like anyone here cares much for this Lloyd, does it?” Alec asked.

The girl averted her gaze, sighing heavily. “He gropes me and pays me next to nothing, but… I supposed it could be worse.”

“It could be a lot worse.” Zevran said before he could think it through. The barmaid gave him a knowing, saddened glance, and he shrugged at the warden.

“It could be better. You could get a raise.” Alec said.

The woman shook her head humorously. “From Lloyd? I find that very hard to believe. What I _should_ do is get back to work if I want to keep the job at all. I’m Bela, by the way. Hope to see you around tomorrow, if any of us is still here by then.”

“Hey, Bela.” Zevran called before she’d turned around. “I’ve one more question, if I may.” A nod in agreement and he discreetly tilted his head to the table on the corner. “The elf over there. Do you know anything about him?” Maybe the mage hadn’t paid the elven archer any notice, but he had a funny feeling about the lad.

“Not much. He’s very quiet.” She furrowed her brows, glancing quickly at the elf in question and then returning her gaze to Zevran. “Says his name is Berwick and he’s here to meet his brother, but I think he’s lying… He’s a bit… Creepy.”

Well, that was all Zevran needed to know.

When she sauntered away, Alec crossed arms over his chest. “Think he’s involved in this?”

“I think there are too many remarkable coincidences going on in this village. The arl is suddenly sick, the current regent can't help -- In fact, they're standing at opposing sides? A traveling elf could be an assassin, waiting to strike. Have you seen that happen before?” Zevran grinned lecherously.  

“I see your point. Go and talk to him." Alec agreed. "I'm buying this tavern in the meantime.”

“You are?” Zevran raised a single eyebrow. “I am entirely in favor of your plan, my dear Warden, but if the owner is the cheapstake they say he is, I'm afraid he might not be inclined to sell.” He suggested, but instead of being met with outraged or disheartened looks, the mage regarded him with confidence.

“Magic can be persuasive.”

Zevran grinned wide. “Oh, I see. You are a wicked man, Warden... I like it. Do let me know if you need my services, yes?”

Alec returned his grin in kind. “I don't expect it to come to that. Don't let it come to that with the elf either. If he can shoot those arrows then he is valuable asset in the battle tonight.”

“ _Capisco_.” Zevran nodded, turning around and heading to the corner table, getting a seat right next to the elf. “So nice to see another traveler about. Not many elves in this town, yes?”

The man’s shoulders stiffened, his brows creased. “Not looking for company.”

Zevran rested his elbows on the table, interlocking the fingers of one hand in the other. He gave the elf his most charming smile. “Come now, my good friend. It’s not every day a handsome lad like me comes around for a little chat.”

“I’m not here to talk.”

Oh, by the fucking Void, Zevran didn’t have the time.

“So you’re just here to act suspiciously, I take it?”

“What?” The man nearly shrieked. “I-I’m not acting suspiciously!” His lips _trembled_.

“Oh, now _that_ was convincing.” Zevran scoffed, a rumbling chuckle in his throat as he unlaced his hand and rested each palm on his own knees. Even the Warden and his dragon-hunting lies were better than that pitiful attempt at dissimulating.

“Look. Just because you’re an elf doesn’t mean we should… be friends. I was just told to--” And he gulped, realizing he was about to spill the beans. Shifting his gaze away, he finished quickly. “I mean, just leave me alone.”

Definitely not a Crow or a trained assassin... Not by miles. 

“I am very sorry to tell you that is not quite possible.” Zevran smiled, tilting his head to the side and pulling a pocket knife from his waistbelt. He unsheathed it and started cleaning the dirt from his nails. “You and I are about to have a chat.” His stare was murderous, at best.

“About _what_?” The elf’s hand shook as he gripped his tankard and sipped his ale. “Just because you are with the Grey Wardens doesn’t mean you can go around threatening people!”

For once the Maker had decided to offer Zevran some humor, for there was not a more perfect moment for such a statement. Almost immediately after the words found his ears, a scared little screech echoed in the tavern. He craned his neck back to find the Warden almost perched on the tavern’s counter, ice crawling up every bit of wood, and a frightened bar-owner floating in the air, held by Alec’s magic grip. The big man was all teary-eyed and compliant, nodding frantically at the mage and clasping hands together in a plea. While Zevran couldn’t quite hear what they were saying, the picture was clear enough in itself.

He turned back to Berwick with a crooked grin, expertly twisting his knife between deft fingers just to enjoy the fear in the elf’s eyes a little longer. Eyebrows shot up. “What were you saying?”

The man’s gaze shifted between the ice-casting Warden at the counter and Zevran’s knife, and he held his drink with both shaky hands, stuttering. “I-- I’m not here to hurt anyone, I swear! I’ll tell you what you want to know, just… Please don’t kill me.” He took in a deep breath, shaking his head and finally confessing to what he knew.

Zevran’s stomach stirred with satisfaction. Even if the archer didn’t know much, it confirmed his sharp suspicion that Redcliffe’s misfortune had been orchestrated. And by the same men who’d hired him to dispatch the Warden, no less. This whole business was starting to sound nearly as exciting as politics back home. Only more amateurish. Nostalgia hit him hard again, and he sighed, watching Berwick huff and puff and finally agree to go outside and help defend the village from the undead.

Feeling accomplished, Zevran turned around in time to watch the cheap bar-owner collect his bearings and grumble his way out of the tavern as well.

Alec had words with the ginger barmaid, drafted two tankards of ale and made his way to the table.

“Who’s taverness now?” He asked with a lopsided grin, resting the tumblers on the wood, sliding one to the side. He looked the cockiest Zevran had ever seen him.

“Goodness, you have your own run-down shoddy tavern, then?” Zevran chuckled loudly, raising his ale and offering a toast. “Congratulations!”

“And, what’s more… It didn’t cost me a copper. I’m actually eighty silvers richer, and Bela’s in charge from now on.” Alec took a long sip of his drink, wiped the frothy foam off his mouth with the back of his freckled hand. “Hopefully the fucker will stop groping her now. And she might get to save some coin.”

For someone who said they didn’t have time to handle people’s little problems, it sure seemed like Alec had a far more altruistic reason to ‘own’ this tavern than simply rubbing it in. Zevran watched him from the corner of his eyes, feeling like he was starting to understand the dissembling mage. He was fond of tales and lies, he didn’t really make his motivations clear, and he enjoyed acting in control. His magic was a tool he was not even remotely ashamed of, and he didn't miss an opportunity to show people his power. But he didn’t really have much understanding of the world outside his Circle of Magi, did he?

Best case scenario? This girl, Bela, would probably steal all profit they made while she could. The more likely scenario, however? Lloyd would return with a hurt pride and she would have to put up with the worst of it. He’d grope her and humiliate her harder than ever. Alec wasn't doing her any favors. 

“What did you get from the elf?” Alec asked, bringing Zevran back from his reverie.

Smiling, he pulled Rendon Howe’s letter from his pocket and handed it to the mage. “Proof that I am indeed the best Crow Ferelden has seen.”

Alec pursed his lips, sliding back on his seat. “Seems like we can’t _not run_ into Loghain and his men, then.” He took a deep breath, folded the paper and put it in his pocket, then lifted orchard eyes back to Zevran. “Thank you, Zev. You helped with the smith, and the dwarf. And this. You’ve got good judgement.”

Zevran almost wanted to thank the warden for humiliating the militiamen, too. But he didn’t. He simply smirked and winked at the mage. “And great looks too, mm,?”

“Ehh. I don’t know, I take back what I said.” Alec teased, sipping his drink. “It’s bad judgment to think I can’t see the obvious.”

Laughter echoed in the tavern. Zevran’s grin stretched. He could have taken the opportunity to flirt with the Warden, but he saw Bela in his peripheral vision and found himself going back to that topic. “Tell me, my friend. How do you plan on running a business while stopping a Blight?”

“First we have to stop the undead.” Alec pointed out. “And live to see another day.” Now that it was just the two of them, his talk of _definitely winning_ was suddenly gone.

Zevran decided not to push.. “Indeed. We might all die gruesomely tonight.”

“I’d toast to that!” Alec lifted his half-empty tankard in the air.

The metal clasp around the tankards clanked against each other. “You’re not scared of death?”

“Are you?” The mage bounced the question back with a raised eyebrow.

“I am an assassin, my dear Warden. One does not do what I do and fear death too greatly.”

“And I’m a mage.” Alec downed what was left of his drink, then turned around and gestured for Bela to bring two more. “Try being told you’re an abomination waiting to happen since you were eight -- That your every dream, quite literally, might be the last. I guess you get used to that expectation.”

“I guess you do.” Zevran smiled. Dark as it may be, he felt the same way.

But they were still here. And maybe Leliana was right, and Alec was meant to be here. But him? Zevran wasn’t sure whether he was meant to _be_ at all.  

Undead aside, though, there was some intrigue to witness, people to intimidate and ale to drink. Maybe it was the alcohol in his empty stomach, but at least he didn’t feel so absolutely bored.

“I feel an obligation to tell you, my friend,” Zevran chuckled, whirling the tankard and knitting his brows at the concentrated hop at the bottom. “But this is the worst ale I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Oy, another insult to my tavern and you’re out, serah. Dragon hunter or not.” Alec snickered, giving him a playful tap on the side of the head and ruffling his hair. “Now drink up. We gotta head down.”

The sun was just about to set… And they had a battle to win. Definitely win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What spooked Alec?! =O Can anyone tell?!
> 
> This is a long chapter and I hope you guys have fun with it!  
> Alec is being such a little shit going around threatening everyone! xD  
> I wish I could show his POV, but y'all will have to help Zev figure him out piece by piece over some ale!  
> Let me know what you guys thought! 
> 
> I'm still looking for a beta-reader for the next one... Which is not entirely done yet and might not come as regularly as the past ones! Please please shout out if you'd be willing to help me (we can help each other if you have da fics of your own!) <3  
> Thank you for reading!


	8. Redcliffe Castle

**EIGHT  
** Redcliffe Castle

“Ze-”

Barely had his name been fully spoken and Zevran’s knife was out of its sheath, pressed to a freckled neck that didn’t belong to the mark he’d seen in his dream tonight, or to either of the Crow torturers who visited him often in his sleep -- Crows who wore the face of the Dalish and snickered with disdain. None saw him as a person, an elf, a brother… He was a weapon. Like he was for the Warden now staring down at his blade.

“Agitated dreams?”

Alec’s hands went up. Despite the sharp silverite blade just a mere half inch from his neck, there was no fear in his green eyes. Was it trust, or was it overconfidence? Zevran knew the mage could have frozen the weapon, or him… But he didn’t. He simply watched. “The Fade here is crawling with curious demons now. We battled last night, after all.”

Still in a sleepy haze, Zevran withdrew his knife. He looked around, recollecting just where he was and why. The wardens. Redcliffe. The undead… The Chantry.

Yes, they’d battled last night.

They had battled from sunset to dawn. It started by the bridge that led into the village, where the knights had taken a stand and barrels of oil were exploded. Where Alistair had crushed the undead’s heads with his shield and roared loudly enough for an army. He’d fought bravely enough for one, too. His determination unshakeable, and his sword unfaltering. The human man was void-bent on defending this village, even if it cost him his own life.

Midway through the dawn, the battle moved to the city, attacked by the Walking Dead who swam from the castle right into the market. Fighting amongst poorly trained militiamen was a challenge in itself,  and perhaps half of the arrow wounds had been friendly fire. Alec had fought and healed tirelessly, with clear intent to keep every civilian alive. An unachievable goal.

That only a handful of men had died, however, was a victory.

None of theirs had fallen. Sten had suffered a bad blow to the stomach, but Zevran remembered seeing him well and alive after the gore show of the battle.

The undead goo was all washed from his own skin now.

The girl whose brother Leliana had found offered them her house, where they could clean themselves. Bann Teagan had given them warm food and the Revered Mother had arranged space in the Chantry for them to put their bedrolls and get some shut-eye.

Not that he'd slept much.

“Yes… I’ve had more pleasant nights,” Zevran agreed with a grunt, running both hands down his face and trying to bring himself to a state of wakefulness. He looked beyond the Warden, finding Leliana not too far, gathering her belongings in her bag while talking to one of the sisters. Alistair conversed with Bann Teagan in a corner of the Chantry. Not all survivors had yet returned to their homes, or gone to the tavern to get drunk, and many of them stood in a queue to claim a share of the food the Revered Mother and her helpers were serving.

Alec had two bowls ready, and offered him one. “Porridge for breakfast.”

Zevran accepted it with a thankful nod, though he doubted he would be grateful once he’d gone and tasted the food. Ferelden cuisine was the biggest atrocity he’d ever tried. He got a spoonful, lifting eyes to the Warden and noticing he looked exhausted. Huge bags under his eyes. But he was clean. His long ginger hair was down and he was wearing… Robes. “Back to Circle Fashion, my friend?”

“I washed my clothes.” Alec shrugged. “They’re drying. These daft robes have protective runes so they’re better than simple clothes.”

“Jerkins and leather skirts do not please you?” Zevran asked honestly. He was sure Bohdan had an extra set of clothing fit for a lightweight man. “They're not heavy like plate armor.”

Alec scoffed, giving him a lopsided smirk. “You have legs to pull a skirt off. Can’t say the same about me.”

Zevran chuckled loudly. Perhaps the remark was only a humorous way to refuse the armor, but the Antivan relished the flattery just the same. It was one thing to know Alec had been enjoying the sight of his legs. Another to hear him compliment them. He returned it in kind. “I’d appreciate the sight of your legs as well, my friend.”

“I'll stick with the robes.” Alec’s tone was disgruntled, and he looked down at himself with certain displeasure -- or was it disdain? -- in his orchard eyes.

Maybe the Warden’s stick legs really wouldn’t benefit from skirts, but robes also made him look scrawnier than usual. They far from accentuated the best of his looks, but Zevran leered all the same, reciprocating the flattery with a pinch of exaggeration. “Well. Anything would look marvelous on you, I am sure.”

“Yeah, right,” Alec rolled his eyes, having none of it. “And a dwarven mage was just born.” He shook his head, dismissing the topic with a wave of hand. “At any rate. Teagan wants to hold a ceremony to thank us and pay homage to the dead. They’ll be set on fire on the lake.”

“Before they get a chance to turn into undead themselves, I take it?”

The mage chuckled with him, pulling a canteen from his belt and wrapping freckled hands around it. He cast a heating spell, then unfastened the lid and took a small gulp of the drink.

“There were four casualties only.” Alec offered him the canteen.

“The tavern owner amongst them.” Zevran sniffed the drink, then sipped it, making a face at the taste. “What _is_ this?”

“Tea.”

“This can’t be tea.” Zevran protested, sniffing the drink again. “Tea tastes _good_. Herbs and sugar and… This is far too bitter, my friend.”

“Well, it is Ferelden tea, Zevran. It really helps to wake you up. Better with milk, but there’s none around. The farm owners have been too busy learning how to fight and -- Wait.” He stopped, orchard eyes narrowing. “Do you put _sugar_ in your tea in Antiva?”

Zevran nodded, taking another sip of the drink simply because he needed to be shaken awake. It was bitter like Antivan coffee, but not half as tasty or aromatic.

“Sugar is expensive around here.” Alec’s red brows knitted. “I remember the cooks in the Circle complaining about supply dwindling… And having to use syrup instead.”

“It seems this is yet another culinary disaster of your homeland, no?”

“Another reason to miss yours.” Alec pursed his lips, shifting on his bedroll across from Zevran. “You know, now that I think about it… If Lloyd is dead, Bella can have the tavern. _My_ tavern.”

“It is much as I thought, too.” A smirk blossomed on Zevran’s lips.

Too wicked, it must have been, because Alec frowned at it, his voice softening to a whisper. “Did you kill him?”

“Oh no. What slander, my friend.” He denied with feigned indignance, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat. “I am an assassin, yet I do not kill for pleasure. And there was no price on his head.” Zevran shrugged. “I was, however, not too far away when the undead surrounded him. Perhaps I could have intervened... Alas. I was much too busy.”

Much too busy attracting everyone else’s attention away from Lloyd as he was attacked.

He was better off dead.

In fact Zevran thought Alec had _meant_ for him to die. Why in the Maker’s name would he have sent an untrained man like that into battle, if not to face death?

“Huh.” Alec scoffed. “And they’ll call him a war hero now.”

“Does it even matter? It seems to me things worked out much as you wanted, my Warden.”

Alec pursed his lips, glancing at the people in the Chantry, letting silence hover between them for a brief moment. “I guess they did.” He said and stood up, dusting off his robes. “Anyway, we must get moving. We have to be in the castle as soon as we can.”

Bann Teagan was of a like mind, Zevran figured. His speech had been short, though he’d taken his time to thank and praise not only the wardens for the help, but all of them. It was curious, to say the least, walking out of that Chantry building to loud cheering and applause. People looked at them with a spark in their teary eyes, and even the militiamen they’d met in the tavern the day before seemed to have forgotten threats or sharp remarks. They lifted their swords in respect.

One man hadn’t forgotten the wrongdoings, and his voice rose above the others. “The Wardens are thieves!” The drunk smith cried out. “Pillagers! Raiders! Sodding elf will steal everything of value you have!”

Zevran fidgeted with the hilt of the dagger around his waist, but he needed not worry. The smith was the only one to boo, rather than cheer. And all he got was an elbow to the waist from one of his fellow villagemen, and a ‘shush’ from a woman at his side. That same woman offered Alistair a necklace in gratitude. And a young boy ran into the man, wrapping tiny arms around his legs and crying that he wanted to be just like him when he grew up. A _hero_.

They were in awe of Alistair. Their countryman. A human, a warrior, a symbol of hope in dark times. And they didn’t even know that the rugged Grey Warden was a bastard to their late King. If they did, they would be on their knees. They would praise him and follow him.

 _Now_ Loghain’s fear of the surviving wardens started to make perfect sense.

The less appreciated elf walked ahead, firm strides, rigid shoulders. Alec paused at the tavern, where Bella was rejoiced to hear she was to be owner of the pub from now on. Even though the mage had already passed the establishment on to her, she still told him she had found Lloyd’s wealth. And as the late tavern owner had no wife, children or other relatives to account for, Bella gave Alec half of the coin as payment for the business, and kept the rest for herself.

Zevran was dumbstruck. If it’d been him, he’d never have mentioned the coin at all.

He’d learned a long time ago that not many people were prone to honesty. It was probably one of the reasons why, once they’d climbed up the slope to the mill to meet with Bann Teagan, Zevran wasn’t surprised to learn the man had lied about the access to the Castle -- Or lack thereof.

There was, in fact, a tunnel leading to the Castle that might have kept them from facing undead, but Teagan had chosen to lie in order to enlist their party in the previous night’s battle. Now that the threat to the civilians was gone, he thought it safe to infiltrate the Arl’s residence. He was on his way to explaining how he meant to proceed when rushed footsteps turned everyone’s heads to an approaching woman and a guard.

“Teagan! Thank the Maker, you yet live!” She cried out, planting her palms on her knees to catch her breath. Her accent was painfully Orlesian; even more accented than Leliana’s. Her hair was tousled and clothes unkempt, but they were fine fabric nonetheless. The man that followed her wore the same armor as the other Knights. She was probably the arlessa of this sorry village. Or someone equally high placed.

“Isolde! You’re alive!” Teagan’s lips trembled as he took a step towards the woman, landing big hands on her shoulders and looking deep into her eyes. “How did you…? What has happened?”

She fell into his arms, a sob caught in her throat. “I do not have much time to explain! I slipped away from the castle as soon as I saw the battle was over. I must return quickly.” Her eyebrows went up, fists closing tightly against Tegan’s chest, clutching the fabric of his clothes. “And I…” Mute tears rolled down her cheeks. “I need you to return with me, Teagan. Alone.”

“You’re not even going to ask what happened here?” Alec asked, arms crossed over his chest.

“What?” The Arlessa snapped her head to the side, eyebrows knitting at the Warden. “I… Who is this woman, Teagan?”

There was a single beat of pause, broken only by Zevran’s snicker. Leliana and Alistair tried, but they couldn’t hold back a chuckle either.

Alec scowled at them.

“This _man_ is a Grey Warden,” Teagan corrected her. Isolde let out a little whelp, looking Alec up and down to confirm the fact that indeed, the robes and long hair didn’t make him a woman. Her eyes delayed long on him before moving on to the rest of their party. They widened greatly when they drank in the sight of Alistair. Pushing herself away from Teagan, she turned to face the lot of them properly.

Alistair sighed. “You remember me, Lady Isolde, don’t you?”

“Alistair…” She spoke softly. “Of all the… Why are _you_ here?”

“He’s also a Grey Warden, Isolde.” Teagan said. “They came to us in a time of need. I owe them my life.”

“Pardon me,” She said. “I would exchange pleasantries, but... Considering the circumstances.”

Alistair ran a hand down the side of his face, taking a step forwards. “Please, Lady Isolde… We had no idea anyone was even alive within the castle. We must have some answers.”

Isolde gulped, her hands gripping the sleeves of her own dress, and she turned to face Teagan once more, inhaling deeply. “Teagan, please. I know you need more of an explanation, but I… I don’t even know what is safe to tell!” Her gaze lowered to the man’s chest. “There is a terrible evil within the castle. The dead waken and hunt the living.”

“You don’t say.” Alec whispered quietly, mostly to himself.

Zevran heard it simply because he stood by the mage’s side. “Very insightful.” He added with equal measures of irony.

The Arlessa didn’t hear them. “There was a mage... Responsible for all of this. He was caught, but still it continues.” Her voice faltered, eyes watering. “And I think… Connor is going mad. We have survived but he won’t flee the castle. He has seen so much death, Teagan!” She gripped at his clothes again, swallowing down a sob. “You must help him, Teagan. You are his uncle. You could reason with him. I don’t know wh--!”

“Is the Arl still alive?” Alec interrupted her.

Wiping off tears with the back of her hand, she regarded him, watching his feet rather than his face. “He is. He is being kept alive so far, thank the Maker.”

“Kept alive?” Teagan's eyebrows knocked. “Kept alive by what?”

“Something… Something the mage unleashed! So far it allows Eamon, Connor, and myself to live. The others… were not so fortunate. It’s killed so many, and turned their bodies into walking nightmares! Once it was done with the castle, it struck the village.” Isolde shook her head in despair. “It wants to live, but I do not know why. It allowed me to come for you, Teagan, because I begged, because I said Connor needed help.”

Alec took a small step forward, gripping his staff tightly. “The mage you mentioned… Where did he come from?”

“He is an… Infiltrator, I think -- one of the castle staff.” Her gaze remained on the floor. If Zevran did not make a habit of studying people as well as he did, he’d have been fooled by her tears. It was not a lie that she was concerned, but something in her story wasn’t truthful either. She wet her lips before going on. “We discovered he was poisoning my husband. This is why Eamon fell ill. This mage!”

“Eamon was poisoned?” Teagan was shocked.

“He claims an agent of Teyrn Loghain’s hired him. He may be lying… I can’t say, Teagan.”

Zevran looked sideways at Alec, only to find his orchard eyes glancing knowingly back at him. Berwick’s letter corroborated with the facts.

“And what’s the shape of this… Evil?” Alec asked.

“I… I don’t know. It’s… I can’t make out a shape!” Isolde kept fondling with her sleeves.

“Could it be a demon, perhaps? An abomination? Does it talk to you through the mage?”

“No. He was arrested.” She ran palms down her face. “I don’t know. Oh Maker’s mercy, could it truly be a demon?” Shaking her head vehemently, she reached for Bann Teagan. “I can’t let a demon hurt my Connor! You must come back with me, Teagan! Please!”

Alec cocked his head in the direction of the knight who arrived with Isolde. “What’s your name?” he asked.

The man immediately straightened himself up, standing upright and giving the Arlessa a nervous glance. “My Lady? May I address the elf?”

 _The elf_. Zevran sneered.

“This is Ser Marius,” she answered for her knight. The man had probably been instructed not to talk to anyone, if Zevran were to guess. “He’s one of the few who were allowed to live, too. If we don’t hurry, more might perish.”

“Ser Marius. What can you tell me about this mage, or this evil?” Alec still regarded the knight. “Is it shaped as a flaming monster? Does it speak through someone? Has anyone been acting in a way they would not under normal circumstances?”

“I’ve already told you all that we know!” Isolde squealed, loudly, hysterically. She wouldn’t allow Ser Marious to answer the questions.

“Yeah, but I get the feeling you’re too preoccupied with your own problems to have assessed the situation properly,” Alec snapped at her. “That, or you’re actually hiding something.”

“I… I beg your pardon!” She snapped back at him. “That’s a rather impertinent accusation!”

“Oh please,” Morrigan’s tone was scornful. “‘Tis rather obvious you’re lying.”

“Impertinent for a mage, is that what you mean?” Alec retorted, crossing arms over his chest, tilting his head. “Or for an elf?”

“No! I did not mean… that is to say…” She stumbled with her words, looking between Alec and Morrigan and then to Zevran himself. He put on an intimidating look. “I... Please, stop this!”

Zevran liked her less and less by the minute.

“An evil I cannot fathom holds my son and husband hostage! I came for help. What more do you want from me?” Her eyes searched for Teagan’s support. “I do not have much time! For Connor’s sake I promised I would return with you, and you only. What if it doubts my word and kills him?”

“Alec, please.” Leliana reached for the Warden’s arm while the Arlessa and the Bann discussed. “She is so clearly distressed.”

“If Connor is held hostage, we really must act soon.” Alistair gulped. “He is Eamon’s heir.”

Alec massaged his own temple. “Yes, yes, I know.”

In the end it was decided that Teagan would return with the woman, and they’d venture through the tunnel towards the castle in hope of reaching it before more harm was done.The signet ring opened the trapdoor inside the mill, but from there onwards they were on their own against the unknown. Alec stopped, looking around at the lot of them, cramped inside the tiny mill.

“Some of us should stay to defend the village if more undead attack.” He said. “We’re looking at a possible abomination here.” He regarded Morrigan. “Have you ever dealt with one?” She rose a dark eyebrow at him, offering no answer whatsoever. “Fine, don’t answer. I’d rather have you with me anyway… Alistair, do you have an idea of the castle’s layout?”

“The kennels and kitchen more than the halls, but yeah… I still remember some of it.”

“Zevran.”

His name caught his attention away from a chest in the corner of the mill, and he lifted his gaze to the mage.

“I want you to come with me.” He said, then turned to the other two. “Sten, Leliana. Please keep an eye at the village?”

Separating from the pair, Zevran followed the Wardens and the witch into the tunnel.

“Being here is like being home again… Except with more undead.” Alistair said as they marched forward. “The village smells like fish. And maybe of charred undead flesh, which is a new flavor for Redcliffe. I must admit it’s probably the only new addition to it in the past fifty decades. Still mostly just fish, though.” He chuckled nervously, blabbering away. “Granted, the tunnel wouldn’t smell like anything else. It goes underneath the lake. Can you feel the humidity?”

“Sorry, what?” Alec stopped. “We-- We’re…” He flailed, and drew in a deep breath. “Underneath the lake?”

Alistair made a face. “Yeah. Why? Are you alright?”

“I am.” Alec nodded “Just… It must have taken long to build it. I was just surprised.” He resumed walking, though he didn’t look like he was quite well. Zevran wondered what the problem was. The narrow walls of the tunnel, or the fact they were underneath the lake?

“Who would even build such a thing?” Morrigan was ever so disdainful. “A tunnel that goes under an entire lake. ‘Tis such a waste of time and resources.”

“I guess... It’s useful for a timely escape.” Alec wiped his forehead on his sleeve. His voice was shaky. “I’ve always wondered if the Circle had something similar. I’d bet my arse they do.”

Zevran snickered. Arses and tunnels just begged for a jest. His smirk turned entirely wicked, an elbow nudging the mage’s arm. Alec looked like he could use a laugh. “Escape tunnels make such very handy entrance tunnels, don't you think?”

He almost feared his offhanded jest would go entirely unappreciated, but a waggle of brows had Alec’s face changing, lips stretching with a scoff. And then laughter erupted, unbidden.

“They sure are handy.” The mage cracked. “Also childproof.”

Zevran grinned wider.  

The innuendos had flown over Alistair’s head completely. “I don’t think I even knew this existed when I was a child. But I would play in the dungeons a lot. I think we're going to end up there.” He gave a wistful sigh. “I locked myself in one of the cages, once. For an entire day. Until the old cook Mae noticed I hadn't gone to the kitchen before bed to try and steal the cookies she would bake for the next morning. I always stole a cookie… Or a handful of them. She always caught me redhanded, but she’d let me have them anyway. Ahh, good times. When I locked myself, they had to walk Ser… What was his name again…?”

“Ser Nobody Cares, his name was.” Morrigan rolled her eyes.

“Ah, yes. I remember.” Alistair snapped his fingers. “Ser Nobody Would Miss _You_ if you were gone for an entire day. Or an entire lifetime.”

“Shh.” Alec rose his staff, gesturing for all of them to halt.

When the silence reigned, Zevran heard the gurgling of undead and the clanking of metal.

“What is it?” Alistair asked in a whisper.

Humans and their poor hearing.

“Undead,” Alec said, venturing forward with cautious steps. The screeches became louder as they walked, and at last they could see the creatures at the end of the tunnel.

Alec cast several paralysis glyphs. “Is it just me or do you think the Veil feels funny here?” He whispered to Morrigan.

“Indeed.” She said, casting a spell of her own. “‘Tis slow.”

“Slow? For me it feels… Quicker to wrap.”

“Not unexpected for one of the People.”

Zevran couldn’t make heads or tails of their conversation, so he drew daggers and took his stance. “Are we getting down to some action any time soon, my dear Wardens?”

“Yeah.” Alec nodded. “Taunt them, Alistair.”

Hammering sword against his shield, Alistair roared loudly enough to taunt the fish in the lake. The undead hurried towards him, getting caught in the glyphs and making their job of shattering their shambling bones rather easy.

When the last of them fell, a pained voice echoed through the tunnel.

“H-hello? Wh-who’s there?”

Weapons drawn, they covered the last few feet until they stood in the middle of the dungeons, in front of the only occupied cell. A bloodied man of dark hair sat curled around himself inside the cage. He wore robes much like Alec’s, and Zevran registered the surprise on the prisoner’s face before he turned around to find similar shock in the Warden’s eyes.

“ _Jowan_?”

“By all that’s Holy! Alec! Is that really you?” The mage in the cell cried out, exasperated. He had difficulty getting to his feet, but he managed. Gripping tightly on the metal bars, he widened eyes at the Warden. “I can’t believe it… I never thought I’d see you again, of all people...”

Alec ran a palm over his forehead and hair. “So you’re the mage the Arlessa mentioned.”

“You’ve spoken with her. Then… You already know that I-- I poisoned Arl Eamon.” He rested his forehead on the back on his hand, against the metal bars of the cell. “For all I know, he’s already dead.”

Alec crossed an arm over his chest, his other palm covering his mouth. “You better explain what happened here, Jowan. And fast. Starting with the blood on your robes.”

“P-please, Alec… I--” He tried to shake the metal bars. “I know it looks suspicious, but I’m not responsible for the creatures and the killings in the castle. I was already imprisoned when all of that began.”

“Do we trust this mage at all?” Alistair asked.

“Should we not ask such a question _after_ we’ve allowed him to explain himself?” Morrigan was the one to answer.

Jowan regarded Alec only. “I’ll tell you everything… But first I need to know… What became of Lily? They didn’t hurt her, did they? The thought that she might have paid for my crime…”

“I don’t know.” The Warden was as serious as Zevran had ever seen him. “We didn’t stay long. Gregoir wanted to take Skyler’s head for helping you. So Duncan conscripted them… But we weren’t allowed to fetch our belongings or even say goodbye to anyone. We left immediately. I don’t know what sentence they gave Lily.”

The prisoner bumped his head against the metal bars, weeping softly. “Oooh, my poor Lily. She must hate me now, if she even lives. What have I done?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, Jowan. What _have_ you done here?”

“Nothing but what Loghain told me to. Lady Isolde came here with her men demanding that I reverse what I’d done. I thought she had meant my poisoning of the Arl.”

“What poison was it, if I may ask?” Zevran interrupted out of curiosity.

Jowan turned to him, but simply shook his head. “I don’t know. The vial had no name... I simply slipped it in his food in the kitchen. The Arl ate breakfast in his study every morning.”

“He still did that?” Alistair asked, mostly to himself.

“I had his breakfast poisoned. That’s all I did, and that’s what I told Lady Isolde. But she thought I’d summoned a demon to torment her family and destroy Redcliffe. The blood on my clothes, it is not what you think, Alec… It’s mine, but I haven’t done blood magic since...” His gaze dropped, and he pulled up one of his sleeves to show a series of scars along his arm. “She.. had me tortured. There was nothing I could do or say that’d appease her, so they left me to rot.”

Zevran recognized the scarring. He had faint marks on his own skin that were not so dissimilar.

Alec took a step forward. He placed his hand on top of Jowan’s, and that familiar bluish gleam of his healing magic emanated from his fingers. The scars on the human man’s arm slowly faded, and his eyes misted. “Thank you…” Jowan weeped.

“I still don’t get why.” Alec said. “Why in the Void would you do this? Wasn’t it daft enough to use blood magic on Templars? You had to go, and... What? Poison an arl? What did Loghain even promise you that you’d be this much of a twat?”

“I didn’t--!” Jowan’s eyebrows went up. “I was told that the Arl was a threat to Ferelden. That he aided Orlesian spies, and that if I dealt with him Loghain would settle matters with the Circle and I’d get to come back… You have to believe me, Alec. All I wanted was to return. But...” His lips shook, and his gaze lowered to their feet once more. “Loghain abandoned me here, didn’t he? Everything’s fallen apart… I never thought it would end like this!”

“You never thought? It’s like you never even _try_ to think at all!” Alec flailed hands about. “Did you really believe him for a minute, Jowan? You can’t be fucking serious.” His voice was growing in volume. “Even if Loghain wanted to help you, which he obviously didn’t. Did you believe for a fucking second the Circle would take you back just because a fucking teyrn told them to? They wouldn’t let you go unpunished even if Andraste herself came back from the Void, Jowan! Do you have a bloody raisin in place of a brain?”

Tears rolled down the human mage’s cheeks and he took a step back, covering his face behind his own palms. “Maker, I’ve made so many mistakes. I disappointed so many people… I wish I could go back and fix it. I just want to make everything right again...”

“I told you what you should have done! You should have asked Wynne to fight in Ostagar!”

“They wouldn’t have let me even if I wanted to!” Jowan whined. He wiped his face with the back of his hands and looked up again. “I was never talented like you and Skyler!”

Alec looked away, staring at the empty corridor they’d left behind. He spaced out for a moment, and silence reigned absolute. Nobody said anything, just waited for him to come back from his reverie. “If only Skyler hadn’t helped you in your idiotic plan, Duncan wouldn’t have...” He shook his head. “And Blood Magic could have been useful in Ostagar. It could have saved people!”

“If I’d been there I’d have died like everybody else! You know this, Alec. I’m not the sort who survives the epic battles in the books…”

“Oh, you are.” Alec scoffed. “The sort who survives in real life. Like a cockroach.”

Jowan returned his hands to the metal bars, actually looking away from the elf and taking in the lot of them for the first time. He frowned at Alistair, narrowed eyes at Morrigan and pursed his lips at Zevran. “Skyler’s not with you.” He said. “Skyler’s _never_ not with you.”

Alistair took a step forward to place a tentative hand on Alec’s shoulder, but the elf shrugged the hand away, regarding the prisoner again. “How did you infiltrate the castle, Jowan?”

“Did Skyler…?” Jowan paused. “I can’t believe it. Maker, Alec. I am… I am so sorry.”

Lily, Gregoir, Skyler… Names that meant nothing to Zevran. But something about the latter had Alec’s face contorting in anger. Ice crawled up through the bars of the cell, freezing Jowan’s hands to the metal. Seemed like their relationship was soured, if there had ever been one.

“Answer my fucking question, Jowan.” He growled. “How did you infiltrate here?”

“Because of Connor! Connor, okay?” The human whined, conjuring fire to melt the ice and free his own hands. He rubbed them on each other to warm them up.

Perhaps it was because Jowan had been tortured, but Zevran didn’t think his craft was even remotely as well honed as Morrigan’s or Alec’s. His flame was weak and feeble, unthreatening. Then again, so was his voice. He just sounded desperate and tired. Full of regrets and guilt and fear.

Zevran wondered if he too sounded like that, on his worst days. He hoped not.

Jowan continued. “Connor had started to show signs. Lady Isolde was terrified the Circle would take him for training.”

Alistair squeaked. “Connor? A mage? No… That’s not... I can’t believe it!”

“Yes.” Jowan nodded. “Lady Isolde sought an apostate to teach him in secret, which I did to the best of my ability. I taught him some magic, but he’s still pretty young. The Arl had no idea. She was adamant he never find out. She said he’d do the right thing, even if it meant losing Connor.” He gulped. “The Arl’s a decent man. I… I wondered how he could possibly be the threat Loghain said he was, but I did it anyway. And I know what you’re going to say, Alec… That I’m a fool. I am. I am such a fool. But I’m just sick of running away and hiding from what I’ve done. I think I  know what might have happened here, and I’d like to try and fix it, any way I can.”

Alec crossed both arms over his chest, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “What might have happened here, then? 

“I think there’s a chance Connor might have inadvertently done something to tear open the Veil.”

“Connor? He’s just a boy!” Alistair protested, swinging his sword about in exasperation. “Can we even believe the word of a blood mage?”

Morrigan glared at the human Warden. “Is this Alistair who speaks, or the Templar?”

“I’m still the same Jowan you knew, Alec. We grew up together. We were _friends_.” He licked his own lips, and Zevran wondered if he’d had anything at all to drink or eat during his captivity. He was a mage, so he might have conjured water. But with the chaos in the castle and in Redcliffe, who would bother feeding a prisoner?

Jowan pressed his face to the bars. “I know I don’t deserve to call you my friend, after what I did. I know I betrayed you and Skyler. But I’m sorry for it. Please, Alec. If you’re still the same friend I once had, you’ll help me do what’s right. You’re the one who used to say Garahel’s smartest tactic was giving people a second chance… And the benefit of the doubt.”

Alec sighed heavily, then turned to Zevran, knocking the head of his staff on the padlock that fastened the cell. “Can you pick this?”

“W-What? We’re letting him go?” Alistair squealed in protest.

“Why, yes, of course.” Morrigan said, a triumphant grin on her lips. “This boy could still be of use to us. Even if not, he should be set free. Why keep him prisoner? He clearly wants to atone.”

“You can’t… You can’t just set a blood mage free!”

Morrigan sneered. “Better to slay him, then? To punish him for his choices?”

“Well, yes. That is how justice works. He is dangerous, and admitted to betraying Alec before. We don’t even know the whole story! ”

Zevran often made a point not to get involved, but he was inclined to agree with the Witch on this one. What made this begging mage any different from himself, soaking on a pool of his own blood and begging for the benefit of the doubt?

His honey gaze shifted between the two humans bickering like children, down to the lock picking tools in his hand and up to Alec, who nodded for him to proceed with the task. Fereldan locks were sturdier, and his first pick almost broke inside the padlock. He got another one, a charming smile sent on the Warden’s direction as means of an apology for the slight delay.

“Join us, Jowan.” Alec said. “Join the wardens.”

“What?” Alistair squealed -- a protest that was pointedly ignored by Alec.

“We need help to fight the Blight, and better you’re with me, then Maker knows where.”

The padlock clicked, and Zevran grinned widely, standing up and flinging the cell open.

Jowan stepped out tentatively. “I do want to make things right. I know that what I did started the terrible chain of events here, and I want to fix it. But I… I’m not sure I want to follow you into danger, exactly.” He popped the knuckles of his hand, gulping when his gaze met Alistair’s. “I can’t be a Warden, Alec. I’d rather help in my own way. Even if I know that if they catch me they’ll probably hang me as they do to traitors and assassins.”

“Only the bad assassins, I must say.” Zevran needed some levity.

Unfortunately, it didn’t stick.

“I can’t-” Alec huffed, running fingers through his hair. “You just want to save yourself, innit? Still the same Jowan indeed.” He fumbled through his pouch, fetching a vial of healing potion and a wrapped little package Zevran was almost sure were dried meats from the other day. He begrudgingly tossed it to the other mage, then pointed his chin towards the tunnel they’d come from. “Get out of my face, Jowan, before I change my mind. Just go, run.”

“I’m sorry things ended this way…” Jowan gripped the vial and the package in his hands. “I… I hope I see you again on day, under better circumstances.”

Alec didn’t answer. Instead he turned around and walked away, heading to the stairs that led to the castle’s first floor. Alistair glanced back at Jowan several times before following, and Zevran tailed after the human man.

They were met with an assortment foes in at least half of the rooms they entered, and they did check every single one of them for survivors. Undead were less frightening the more they fought them, but Zevran could have done without Wraiths and Shades, the difference between which eluded him completely -- Which made him the odd one in the group. Alec and Morrigan were mages, and Alistair had received Templar training, which put them all in better position to battle Fade creatures than himself.

Not to say that this was the first he’d ever encountered such creatures. Being a Crow meant one had to handle all sorts of marks -- from lowly merchants threatening to usurp another’s clientele, to highly ranked officials, princes and queens, to mages or otherwise mage-involved people who insisted flaming demons fight in their place.

Zevran ended up with a burn on his left hand, but decided not to mention it at all. It wasn’t lethal, and something about that pain was grounding.

“At least I don’t get blood on my clothes.” He said with a grin as they moved onward through the pest-infested castle.

“That makes it so much better.” Alec humored him.

“Always the optimist, that’s me.” He hid the injury from the mage.

Given how much blood painted the Castle’s walls, he wouldn’t have been optimistic that they’d ever find the whiny smith’s daughter. But unlike a starved old man they’d found in an armory, the young maid had been sensible enough to hide somewhere with enough food supply to last her the nightmarish days. Alec and Alistair both were both pleased to have found her.

Zevran, for his part, was pleased with the gear he’d nicked from the armory. A new blade and a pair of boots -- A squire’s, as the adult human sized shoes did not fit, and he wasn’t looking forward to more blisters. The boots were study. Fine quality, like much in that rather painfully wide Castle.

At last they reached main hall, just in time for the most absurd puppet show Zevran had ever witnessed. Jowan had been right -- Connor was responsible for the creatures, and his mother had chosen not just to allow the situation to escalate, but to hide it from them. There was no claiming innocence when he admitted to the deeds.

“And this is the one who defeated my soldiers, mother? The ones I sent to reclaim my village?” The boy’s voice was eerie, and he seemed to have taken control of Teagan and the knights as though they were dolls.

Only the Arlessa still had her own mind, but she kept her head low and answered the boy as though he owned her. “Yes, Connor.”

The boy pointed at Alec and twisted his nose. “It’s staring at me, mother! What is it? I can’t see it well enough.”

“This is an elf, Connor. You… You’ve seen elves, before. We have them here in the Castle.”

Zevran tasted iron on his tongue. He breathed through his nose, rolling his eyes. Of course they _had_ elves in the Castle. Just like they had dogs -- A dozen of them. Or at least they’d had dogs, up until the hounds too had turned rabid and attacked their party on their way up to the halls.

“Elves! Oh, yes, I remember!” The boy exclaimed, almost excitedly. “I had their ears cut off and fed to the dogs! The dogs chewed for hours! Shall I send it to the kennels, mother?”

His stomach turned. The mutts were all dead now, and he did not fear the threat. The thought of it made him sick all the same. Taking their ears… Such humiliation, and what for? It was cruelty not even the Crows would resort to when handling deserters, thought he had heard of magisters in Tevinter severing their slaves’ ears to teach them a lesson. And old Orlesian nobles who’d cut the tips of their servants’ ears to make them look more... Palatable.

He glanced at Alec, but the Warden wasn’t looking back. Did this boil the blood in his veins as well? Or did he care less, because he was a mage?

The boy screeched, and fell to his knees, hiding his face in his palms. When his eyes lifted once more, he sounded different --  Lucid. But it was only for a brief second. When Isolde tried to hug him, he shoved her away with insults.

Still she pleaded with the wardens for mercy. “Connor didn’t mean to do this! It was that mage -- he started this! He summoned the demon! My Connor was just trying to protect his father!”

“And made a deal with a demon to do so? Foolish child.” Morrigan tsked under her breath.

“It was a fair deal!” The child roared. “Father is alive, just as I wanted! Now it’s my turn to sit on the throne and send out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!”

“I say kill him and be done with it.” Zevran said. “Before he has our ears cut off, yes?”

Alec wasn’t sold on the idea. “That was the demon, Zevran. Not him. He’s an abomination now.”

“Don’t these creatures feed on the host’s thoughts already?”

“‘Tis often so, yes.” Morrigan agreed.

“But children learn what they learn from someone… People who should have known better.” Alec’s gaze traveled to the weeping mother, still trying to appease the demon, thinking her child could be saved from its clutches. But the boy puppeteered the Bann and all of the remaining knights, forcing them to attack their party.

They were well trained men, and while Zevran was confident in his skill, fighting _without_ killing them like the Warden ordered them to was in itself an Andrastian task. While Zevran entertained Teagan in swordplay, trying not to kill or get killed, another knight nearly knocked Alec cold. The mage was sent rolling on the floor, his unfashionable robes getting torn at the knees. Alistair ran to his aid, ducking the offending human on the side of the head with the pommel of his sword -- Not without getting his arm slashed.

On her own, Morrigan had managed to get at least two of the knights caught in her spider web.

Panting from that dance and trusting that Alec’s magic could mend the damage, Zevran pierced his dagger through Teagan’s sword shoulder, and that seemed to do the trick. His listless blue eyes unfogged, focusing on him. Instead of worry or fear, he found gratitude in that gaze.

“Thank the Maker. I can think again.” He puffed, exhausted, clutching the injured shoulder to try and stop it from bleeding out.

“Alec? Warden?” Zevran called, holding the nobleman still.

The mage hurried towards Bann Teagan. He ripped the clothing with his pocket knife and asked for help extracting the blade, then ceased the bleeding and started mending the injured tissue.

Alec always knitted his brows hard when he was healing, and he got this determined look on his face, focusing on little else but the task in front of him. Sometimes Zevran thought he actually left his own body. It seemed to him as though the mage went through to the Fade itself, when he cast what were probably the most complex spells. But what did he know?

As much as he knew how to sew and bandage wounds, Zevran thought himself as someone who ripped flesh open, not mended it.

In the end they both got themselves soaked in blood.

Isolde wept by their side, relentlessly insisting that there should be some way to save her son.

Help came in unlikely forms. Against Alec’s accusation that he meant only to save himself, the blood mage Jowan returned to the lion’s mouth. He tiptoed into the main hall, speaking softly to the Arlessa as if that would soften her pain or anger.

“You! You did this to Connor!” The woman fetched Teagan’s sword from the floor and leaped for the mage, poised to severe his head from his neck.

Zevran jumped to stop her as soon as he’d seen the worry in the Warden’s orchard eyes. Being much swifter than the noblewoman, he caught her waist and her arm far before she’d reached her target. How sorry for him that the only woman he’d held in days was this, and that her frame against his was so very far from desirable. He twisted her wrist to reclaim the blade, and released Isolde before she was the one unleashing her knights on him like dogs.

“You won't lay another finger on him.” Alec threatened her, standing up and positioning himself between Jowan and the angered woman. “ _You_ let this happen. Your son made a deal, and now a demon has him. Sooner rather than later you'd better come to your fucking senses and brace yourself for what must be done here. And you know what it is. You’ve known it long enough to have saved the people from the village -- _your_ village. But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t know… I…” She planted palms on her own cheeks. “Connor is still inside. And I think… It is he who is keeping my husband alive… If you… If...” She choked. “Then both Connor and Eamon might perish.”

“Lady Isolde. You know I was raised a Templar…” Alistair chimed in. “And I wouldn’t normally do something as atrocious as suggest slaying a child. Least of all Arl Eamon’s. But… Connor’s now an abomination. I’m not sure there is any choice left.”

“Shows how little your Templars know.” Morrigan never passed an opportunity to prove Alistair wrong. “‘Tis possible, in fact. To separate the Spirit from the child. It must be done in the Fade.”

“You would need copious amounts of Lyrium to enter the Fade.” Alistair retorted, showing that he did know what she spoke of. “Lyrium only the Chantry could provide… Or the Circle.”

“It would take too long to get to the Circle, and we can’t be sure they’d be able to help. There’s rumor of something wrong up there and we don’t know what.” Alec ruled it out. “Redcliffe has handled too many attacks to risk another one while we’re out collecting Lyrium vials from Chantry sisters.”

“But if my son can be saved…”

“At the cost of how many more of your elven servants?” Alec huffed. “How many more of your knights? How many more sons and fathers and daughters in your village? How many lives does it take to equal one single member of your oh-so-important family?”

“Alec.” Jowan interrupted him. “There is… Another option.”

The two Circle mages shared a long look between each other -- They spoke through that gaze rather than through words.

Zevran thought back to days when Taliesen would do nothing but raise a single eyebrow, and he would know exactly the sort of mischief that happened to be brewing in his friend’s head. Often they shared their aches and pain through silent gazes, and it never took more than a look for one to jump to the other’s defense when they were caught in hot water. When Rinna jointed their deranged pair, she pointed out how ridiculous they were with those waggling brows and the secret looks. But she’d learnt the language faster than they’d developed it.

“The cost, Jowan. It's too high.” Alec’s tone had grown calm again.

Isolde was past the point of desperation. “If he can enter the Fade, and kill the demon without hurting my boy, I will pay any price. Name it. We have gold in our safes.”

Zevran’s ears twitched at the sound of it. Where did they hide the gold?

“I wouldn’t enter the Fade.” Jowan explained. “But Alec could. The price is not gold, Lady Isolde. I do not want your riches… But for me to send another mage into the Fade, I would have to use Blood Magic. The ritual I know… It requires life energy -- A lot of it.” He gulped, turning to Alec. “All of it, in fact…”

“So someone must die? Someone must be sacrificed?” Teagan was still clutching his limp arm, shoulder not completely healed.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything… It’s… Not much of an option.”

“‘Tis as sensible an option as killing the boy.” Morrigan pondered.

Alistair, of course, disagreed. “No, it’s not. How can more evil be of any help here? Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

Zevran had no opinion whatsoever. In fact this entire situation was getting bothersome and far too sobby. If it were up to him, the boy would already be dead. This lady could make herself more children if she so wished -- The act itself was worth it.

And since his opinion was irrelevant, Zevran busied himself mentally remapping the areas of the castle they’d been through on their way up, wondering where their treasure might be hidden.

“Let it be my blood,” Isolde said, holding a pendant around her neck. “If it is between someone killing my son to destroy the demon inside him, or giving my own life so he can live, the answer is clear to me. I will be the sacrifice.”

“A willing participant. Problem solved.” Morrigan sounded almost cheerful.

“You rest your hopes on this mage who poisoned Eamon?” Teagan asked.

“Rest your hopes on me.” Alec told them. “I will go to the Fade myself and bring your son back. If you are certain you are ready to die.”

No tears streamed down her face now. “If there is even a chance to save Connor, I am. Save my son and you will be rewarded, Grey Warden. Teagan will uphold that promise for me if my husband cannot. Connor’s life is worth more to me than anything, even my own.”

Such unpleasant business to witness -- Zevran twitched his nose.

The whores in the brothel often sold their own daughters and sons to the Crows for a little more coin with which to purchase _Aquae Lucidius_. There weren’t many mothers who actually wanted the children they bore, and even fewer who gave a nug’s arse. Those who did never did go far.

Too often their own sons and daughters sealed their demise.

Something twisted in Zevran’s gut. Suddenly he wished he were still killing flaming shades and undead. He wrapped his good hand on the burnt one, squeezing the injury.

Alec requested they give Jowan some food before he performed the spell. A couple of knights were dispatched to bring him bread, and in the meantime Tegan woefully wrapped his arms around Isolde, bringing her into a last embrace.

Alistair, Morrigan and him gathered around Alec upon his beckoning.  

“If anything goes wrong, you know what you must do.” Alec said. “If the boy is still a demon after the ritual, slay him. I’ll leave you to that task, Zevran.”

Of course... The Crow was good for one thing. “Oh, fun.” He cooed sarcastically. “I am looking forward to assassinating a child.”

“None of us are. But I’ll trust you’ll do it. Alistair would falter.” The mage reasoned, turning to the other Warden before the man tried to protest. “And should I not return the same either, Alistair... You’re a warden. You have the treaties and the Blight is your priority. Nothing else matters.”

“Why not send Morrigan to the Fade? She’s not one of the two last Wardens in Ferelden. Better she take that risk than you.”

The contained rage in Alec’s glare and tensed shoulders and pursed lips gave away the fact he didn’t think the Wilds Witch as disposable as Alistair did.

“‘Tis of no consequence which of us does it.” Morrigan shrugged. “This Spirit preyed on a foolish child. Only equally foolish men like Alistair would fear it too greatly. Allow me to confront it.”

“And let you have all the fun?” Alec scoffed, giving her a playful grin. “Not a chance in the Void.”

Alistair’s jaw fell. “Are you...” His gaze drifted off to Teagan and the Arlessa, then back to Alec. “Lady Isolde is going to sacrifice herself in a Blood Magic ritual. Is this fun for you?”

“No. It’s not fun. It’s just…” Alec gulped, and shook his head. “You’re not a mage. I don’t expect you to understand. Let’s just get this over with.”

Teagan still by her side, the Arlessa kneeled in the center of the hall. Alec lay down on the cold marble, in front of Jowan. Only the matter of how to harvest her blood was left to be discussed. Jowan’s voice trembled even harder when he suggested slashing her throat. 

“And have Connor see me with a sewn throat in my funeral?” Her eyebrows shot up.

“Isolde, you don’t have to do this.” Teagan insisted. “You can have other children.”

The Bann was a sensible man, but Isolde was determined to save the son she already had.

“The wrists.” Zevran suggested, approaching the pair and kneeling on the other side of Isolde. He drew his pocket knife out. “A vertical cut on each one, it will bleed fast enough. Long sleeves will keep it hidden from your son’s sight during the funeral,.”

She gulped, widened eyes meeting his. Zevran felt painfully uncomfortable, but he offered her a charming smile like those he often gave his marks in the pleasant hours he provided them with before he took their lives. She eased into that smile, closing her eyes and nodding gently at him. “Yes. That sounds good.”

The Crow was good for one thing. 

Zevran pulled up one of her sleeves, and as the blade sunk into flesh, she whispered gently into the silent halls. “May the Maker watch over you.”

Not a drop of her blood was lost, flowing straight from her veins towards Jowan’s staff, drained by it like a sponge sucking up water.

The air grew thick; Isolde gasped on her last breath, her eyes rolled up, and the hall went still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A squire’s, as the adult human sized shoes did not fit_ → [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/works) gets all the credit for this detail here!
> 
> Also HUGE thanks to [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/works) and DAfan7711 for beta-ing this chapter for me! (for the rest of people here reading this fic > go check their works out too! <3)


	9. Redcliffe Castle Part 2

**NINE  
** Redcliffe Castle: Part 2

 

So much for not being drenched in blood. 

Demons may not have veins or fluids to spurt out of their slashed limbs, but Zevran ended up covered in red all the same. Teagan’s blood had slid down his collarbone and soaked the cotton undershirt, and the uncomfortable awareness of having iron-scented ichor all over him was the only thing he could think of while they sat about waiting for the ritual to be over.

It was a long wait. Alistair had fetched needle and thread from his pouch and stitched Isolde’s wrists in solemn silence. A poor job if he’d ever seen one, but Zevran said nothing. Teagan took her body upstairs, and returned in the company of trembling maids. They’d been hiding in the Arlessa’s chambers whenever the demon had no wish for them to cook or clean for Connor and his family. The women were told to get food and a few hours of rest -- Many hands would be needed to get the Castle cleaned and running again. Bann Teagan sent a knight into the village to bring back a sister, new maids, a cook and fresh produce.

There was barely any good food left in the Castle. Much of it had either been consumed or spoiled by now. Zevran accompanied one of the knights into the kitchen and scavenged for what was left. No one complained about the smelly cheese and oddly-tasting dried meat, not even himself. He chewed on quietly, though the lack of noise was not comforting.

He wasn't fond of quiet. It left too much room for his own demons to strike a conversation.

“How will we know the demon hasn’t possessed the Warden instead?” Zevran asked honestly. 

“I reckon he’d talk funky like Connor?” Alistair guessed.  _ Such a helpful Templar _ .

“Fool.” Morrigan grunted.  _ Such a helpful witch _ .

Alistair ignored her. “Perhaps we can ask him questions to see if it’s truly him.”

“We could ask where he was raised, before the Circle,” Zevran said, honey eyes shifting to the brooding dark-haired mage who hadn’t said a single word since the ritual had begun. “I assume you’d know the answer?”

Jowan sat cross legged by the elven Warden. “Somewhere North. Amaranthine?” He shrugged. “But that wouldn't work. A demon would know. They… They can get inside your head.”

Amaranthine was in Ferelden, yes? Not in the Anderfels.

“Well, there goes your idea, my friend.” Zevran patted Alistair on the shoulder. “We will have to wait and see if he will attack us.”

“I won’t.” Alec’s voice snapped Zevran’s attention to him. Eyes open, he braced himself on his hands to sit up. “Not an abomination.”

“Now, isn’t that  _ exactly  _ what an abomination would say?” Zevran teased, narrowing honey eyes playfully at him, a grin on his lips. He was glad Alec was safe, if only because he didn’t think Alistair would be so inclined to give him shelter and aid against the Crows.

“You’re back.” Teagan rushed to them, offering his good arm to help Alec up. “Is Connor safe?”

“He should be.” He nodded, dusting off the torn skirt of his robes. “The Demon is gone.” 

“Maker’s Breath! I can’t believe it.” Hands on Alec’s shoulders, Teagan shook him in excitement. “Thank you, Warden. I --” He took a deep breath, releasing the mage and running fingers through his dirty hair. “I will go and see Connor now.”

Alistair pushed himself up in a flash. “I’m coming with you.”

“Bann Teagan?” A knight called before the two men had ventured out of the hall. “What do we do with the prisoner?”

The Bann turned around and glared at the mage, face stern -- Brows knitted, lips pursed. There was no gratitude in his eyes. “Take him back to the dungeons.”

“Wait. What?” Alec protested, fetching his staff and putting a foot in front of the other, standing in battle stance between Jowan and Teagan. “He just helped us with the ritual.”

“He did not deceive us about it, that is true.” The Bann agreed. “But I can’t be the one to decide what to do with him. He poisoned my brother, so I find it fair to hold him until Eamon is well. And if he doesn’t recover, well… Then Jowan’s fate is sealed.”

“I will try to heal the Arl soon,” Alec offered, his tone level. When his mouth closed, however, his jaw clenched. Zevran’s gaze dropped to his pale hand, noticing the tightness of the grip on the staff. “Allow me to accompany Jowan to the dungeon, first. I’d like a word with him.”

“As you wish.” Teagan conceded, giving the knights a nod before landing his palm on Alistair’s shoulder and beckoning him out of the main hall.

Two knights grabbed Jowan by the arms, carrying him none too gently. 

Alec gestured for Zevran to accompany him. When they were out in the courtyard, the Warden held his hand out to slow him down, lagging behind, allowing the knights to put several steps of distance between them. “I’m thinking,” he whispered. “I can distract the guards so you can pick the lock of the cell. That way Jowan can escape when he gets a chance.”

Zevran scoffed humorously. “Are you sure this is a good idea, my friend?” 

The Warden only gave him a shrug in response. It seemed like a flimsy plan. Stealing the key from a knight was easier and faster to do, with hands as deft as his own. But he didn’t have time to suggest a change in plans.

Once the guards had closed the door to the cell, Alec asked for a moment to talk with his friend. The knights nodded in agreement, but did not move from the side of the cell.

Jowan had fingers around one of the bars, and Alec placed his hand on top of his friend’s. “Can we have some privacy?” The ginger mage asked, intertwining his fingers with the other man’s. “I would like to say goodbye. We… used to be lovers.” 

Zevran’s lips curved upwards in amusement -- Amused both by the interesting development and by the clear discomfort one of the knights showed. The human man made a disgusted face, but followed the other soldier to a farther away corner of the dungeon anyway.

Jowan looked as perplexed as the knight. Eyes widened and mouth agape. 

“Alec. What are you doing?” He asked a little too loudly. 

If there’d been some well-tuned, silent communication between them when it came to the Blood Magic ritual they’d performed, now they were entirely out of synch.

“Shh. Just play along, Jowan.” Alec whispered. Zevran could only hear it because he was an elf, and he wasn’t standing as far away as either one of the knights. “We’ll help you out of here.” 

“No. Alec.” Jowan pulled his hand away. “I’m not becoming a Warden.”

“I know... And I still think you’re a fucking twat. But if they send you to the Circle they’ll make you Tranquil. And if you stay here they’ll make you  _ dead _ .”

Jowan lowered his gaze. “I know. But I’m tired of running. Where would I even go? What would I even do?” He shook his head. “Lily is gone. There is nothing for me out there.”

“No. Jowan. Listen. You go to a farm and become... A fucking farmer, innit? Like you wanted.”

Jowan took a step back and crossed arms over his chest. “I’ve made my decision. Thank you, my friend, but I’m staying.”

“Ugh!” Alec grunted, throwing his head back and punching the metal bars. He was no longer just whispering at this point. “Why can’t you follow one fucking plan, Jowan?! Not ever? Andraste’s fucking tits… You’re infuriating.” They glared at each other for a good while, the redheaded elf shaking his head in disbelief when the other man pulled away completely, resting his back against the farther wall and sliding down to the filthy floor of his cell. “What if-- Ugh.” Alec threw his hands up. “Fine. Whatever. Why do I even bother.” 

Turning around, he strode out of the dungeon.

Zevran followed at his heels. “So… Lovers, were you?” He teased, a mocking smirk on his lips.

“Not in the fucking Void. I’d sooner be chaste.” Alec turned to look at him, an incredulous scoff under his breath. He waited a step and they fell into pace side by side. “That was just a ruse. Jowan’s not my type.  _ At all _ .” 

“And what is your type?” Zevran asked, grin widening. He did enjoy where this conversation was going. “Are you fond of raven hair in mysterious witches, perchance? Or dangerous assassins with charming ways?” 

Alec didn’t take either bait. “I’d say I’m fond of…  _ Not _ cowards.”

That was harsh, and Zevran couldn’t help but disagree, even if silently. A young man who faced the consequences of his actions, even when it was most certainly going to end up in execution, didn’t sound like a coward to him. He hadn’t known Jowan for more than a day, however. And he was slowly learning that Alec didn’t leave much room for diverging opinions. 

But curiosity was a whore. “If I may ask. What makes you think him such a coward?” 

“Jowan was  _ always _ in need of help.” The mage shook his head. “With studies, magic, girls… He never had the guts to do anything on his own. There was always a sob story about not being good enough, and needing support. Either we agreed to help, whatever the consequences  _ we  _ might face, or he’d pull up the same old bullcrap that we weren’t his ‘true friends’. You heard him earlier. He...” Alec paused his passionate rant, huffing and waving a hand in the air to dismiss the topic. “You know what? Let’s not talk about him.”

It was the first he saw the Warden talk of anything personal, save for lying about his origins, and Zevran wouldn’t have minded hearing more. The ‘ _ girls _ ’ part could be fun, if not the fact he could tell there had been  _ something _ Jowan had asked for that had crossed a line. 

“As you wish, my Warden.” He was intrigued, but instead he nodded in agreement, not betraying his curiosity simply because they’d reached the cellar -- Which was ridiculously well stocked. Zevran paused, inhaling in the mixed aroma of whiskey caskets, and cider and wine. “Let us talk about spirits, then?” 

“Fade Spirits?” Alec asked, registering where they were only a split second later. “Oh --  _ This _ sort of spirits.” He chuckled, looking around the cellar. “Yeah. These are much better. You think the Arl would miss a bottle?”

“Or two?” Zevran snickered, plucking out a Nevarran wine from a honeycomb shaped storage compartment. He inspected the label, then returned it and continued to peruse the many bottles.

“You can always assume two things about wealthy noblemen, mm? One. That there’s some sort of sexual scandal going on in the family. Or many.” If he were to bet, he’d put his coin in the Arlessa having had an incestuous affair with Bann Teagan. There had been something about their shared looks and embraces, and such defeat in the nobleman’s eyes after the deed was done. Not that he would recognize grief if he saw it. He liked to think Teagan’s sorrow had scandalous implications. “And two. That they stock Antivan brandy for special occasions. And Antivan wine for all the other days.” 

“Is that so?” The Warden chuckled, picking up a bottle. “A pity they don’t have ale. Is Orlesian wine good?”

“Nothing like an Antivan seleney or port, my friend. It is why they import from us.” Zevran raised a blonde eyebrow, watching Alec return the Orlesian. “Didn’t you have any in the Circle?”

“We had home-brewed ale and wine.” Alec picked up another drink and cast a spell to pop the bottle open. He sniffed its contents. “The Tranquil brew it. This one’s Chasind. It smells sweet. What’s a  _ mead _ ?” He knitted his red brows, inspecting the label for answers.

“Honey-wine.” Zevran saved him the trouble. 

Alec sipped the beverage and hummed under his breath. “Mm... Hadn’t expected it to be bitter.” He licked his lips. “Pretty good. I like bitter.”

Zevran continued to check the compartments, but it was to no avail. There was no Antivan brandy or wine to be found. “Alas. Ferelden clearly lacks taste in drinks as well as food.” He grumbled softly as he pushed aside the last of the bottles. This country kept finding ways to disappoint his expectations, and he barely had any to begin with. 

He settled for the Chasind mead, filling his flask to the top before heading back upstairs with the Warden. They met Teagan in his brother’s chambers. Connor was back to his old self, and didn’t seem to remember anything about what had happened. 

The Arl, however, was still unresponsive.

They all gathered around the old man’s bed while Alec tried to heal him, but even after a whole hour and several different tries, the Warden had reaped no results with his magic. As a favor for Alec, Morrigan had come and checked on him as well, but she said there was nothing she could do. They were all getting painfully tired, and Bann Teagan declared it a lost cause.

“Magic won’t work. Isolde told me they’d tried everything.” The nobleman said. “As odd as it may seem, the quest Isolde sent the Knights on may be our only hope. We must find the Urn of Sacred Ashes.”

“It is but a fable.” Alec left the Arl’s side, massaging his own left wrist with the right hand.

“Many people think Darkspawn are just a fable too,” Alistair argued.

Teagan nodded. “There is at least one scholar who thinks it’s true -- Genitivi. Eamon funded a research he’d been conducting to the decipher the instructions on Andraste’s birth rock. I know it sounds odd, but… Perhaps you and Alistair could seek Genitivi out in Denerim and see if any clues remain about the Urn? I would do it myself, but with Eamon comatose and Isolde dead,” he took in a shaky breath, “I need to stay in Redcliffe.”

“There is a Blight at stake.” Alec rested his palms on his hips. “And I don’t believe the urn exists. The most I can offer is to look for Brother Genitivi if we’re ever in Denerim. That is all.” 

“That is a start. Thank you very much, Warden. You can count on Redcliffe to stand with the Order. We will pay you back for the help.” Teagan closed his fist and placed it upon his heart, bowing slightly to the Warden. “You are also welcome to stay the night in the Castle if you so wish. It is late to take on the road.”

The Maker finally decided to cut them some slack. Zevran’s flask was heavy with mead and now there was a chance he’d be sleeping in an actual bed. He did not hide a smile -- One which Alec saw, having glanced on his direction.

“Yes. That would be good,” the Warden agreed. “And there is one more thing. About Jowan.”

“I can’t release him.” No compromises for blood mages, it seemed.

Alec lifted a palm up to ask the human man to allow him speech. “I know. But he can be of use.” He fished a folded paper from his pouch and showed it to Teagan. “That’s a letter from Loghain to a spy who was staying in Redcliffe. That, and Jowan’s testimony, could be enough to prove to whoever would listen that Loghain MacTir was responsible for the poisoning of the Arl. Do not torture Jowan again. Treat him with decency, and he will agree to help.”

Teagan took a moment to read the letter, then nodded at Alec. “I will see to it. Now… I am sure you and your companions would like to freshen up?”

Yes, please! 

Zevran was eager to wash up and bury his face in a pillow, but instead the Warden sent him out to call Leliana and Sten to the Castle. 

Right when he was starting to think Alec wasn’t all bad… 

Could he even refuse the task? Or was he oath-bound to play the Warden’s errand boy as well? 

Begrudgingly putting up with bloodied clothes for a while longer, Zevran did go to the village, but returned with only one companion at his side. Sten had refused to sleep in the Castle, choosing instead to camp outside the city with Bodahn and Sandal. What sane person would pass up on a proper bed and an actual bath?

He had expected the water to be cold, but Alec not only showed him and Leliana to their rooms, but offered to heat up their baths. Zevran was quick to jump on the offer, flirting little comments sent on the mage’ way as he effortlessly turned freezing water into steamy. 

He winked and invited the Warden to join him, but Alec dismissed it with an amused scoff and a shake of head, leaving him to enjoy the hot bath all on his own. 

His feet went up on the borders of the tub, neck craned back and eyes tightly shut. The warmth eased the knots on his shoulders, muscles relaxing in the water. Zevran hummed Antivan tunes, louder after each sip from his flask -- Each time he chugged down more than before, a tipsy fluttering erupting in his stomach. He swirled a knife between tingling fingers, entirely unafraid of letting it slip and fall into the bath. It just wouldn’t happen. His hands were far too deft. 

Even if he’d rather have someone else’s. 

He traded the blade for his own need, swift fingers wrapped around himself, relishing a stolen moment of loneliness to ease the tension off, walling off his own demons and instead steering his memories to that beautiful, dark haired acrobat he’d met in Rialto and who’d loved him madly... For twenty coppers. 

His heart grew cold before the water. 

Were that he had twenty coppers, and a prostitute’s voice filled the empty silence in that room. 

Zevran dried his hair, put on clean cotton, and ventured out through the Castle’s corridors again, half hoping to find valuables which to steal, half hoping to find people with whom to fill the quietness.

He bumped into Alec on the way out of a room. 

“Sneaking about, my dear Warden?” He asked, approaching with such soft steps that the mage nearly jumped at the sound of his voice, quickly reaching for his staff.

“Maker’s breath,” Alec frowned. “You’re the one sneaking about.” He shook his head, shoulders easing down once more. “I was just talking to Alistair. Have you eaten? The cook made stew.” 

“Mm, is that an invitation to accompany you for supper?” Zevran leered, honey eyes half lidded and a smirk crooking on the corner of his lips. “I’d enjoy staring at those lovely eyes of yours.”

“Sorry,” Alec shrugged. “Alistair and I ate already. Just head to the kitchen, though -- I swear her stew is actually good. Not like Alistair’s.” 

“Not like yours either, hopefully?” Zevran jested, hiding away disappointment over the refusal.

“What did I tell you about that snark, Zevran?” The mage chuckled, giving him a light slap on the side of the head. “Oh, and just a reminder. We’ll be on the road before the sun’s up tomorrow. Whoever’s not ready is staying behind.”

“A Castle such as this, my friend?” Zevran gestured to the high ceiling and adorned pillars. “Not a bad place to be left at.” 

“Not if you want to scrub bloodied floors, I don’t think.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Zevran sighed heavily, playing off the Warden’s smartassery with some of his own. “This slaying demons and Darkspawn business is so very taxing, no? Perhaps I should go for something simpler. I’m sure Ferelden nobility has never had a more handsome servant.” 

He grinned, well aware that he was masterful with a pair of blades, and he’d been useful to the Wardens in this past week. He fought well alongside them, and he could accomplish tasks none of Alec’s morally-repulsed companions would dare. The Warden wouldn’t just leave him behind, would he? Zevran wanted to think he was a valuable asset, but he’d also thought himself as much to the Crows. A lifetime of servitude, only to be tossed aside like a dull knife.

Deep down he’d hoped the Warden would tell him he was wanted -- needed -- within their crew. That he had a purpose too, like the rest of them.

Instead Alec simply scoffed. “Before sunrise, Zev.” He started walking away. “Don’t test me.”

Zevran’s shoulders slumped, a pout on his lips that no one could see. His honey eyes turned to the door Alec had left ajar upon leaving. From the chink he noticed the flicker of candlelights. He pushed the wood forward, finding Alistair quietly seated in front of a desk at the center of what looked like a study.

“Oh, it’s you.” Alistair flickered brown eyes at him. “What do you need?”

“Nothing.” Zevran smiled. “I was simply taking a walk. I assume that is allowed, yes?” He looked up, admiring the adorned pillars on each side of the door, the swirling golden designs crawling up to the high ceiling. “This is a very nice castle to be raised at.”

“Don’t tell me you’re here to try to steal something of value.”

“Never,” Zevran feigned offense, “such slander to my person. As if I’d ever.”

“You stole my pocket knife.” Alistair grumbled, not taking his eyes from a piece of jewelry resting on his palm atop the reddish wooden table.

“And what proof do you have, mm?” Zevran challenged him, a blonde eyebrow curving up.

“Seriously, Zevran? You’ve been walking around with it for days now,” the human man pointed at Zevran’s waist, the pocket knife not even concealed properly.

“What, this?” Zevran furrowed his brows, plucking the knife from its sheath in a swift movement. 

Alistair’s hand immediately left the necklace and landed on the hilt of his own sword, wary eyes following Zevran’s hands, waiting on his next move. The man still thought an attempt against their lives was bound to happen at any given moment.

And he had hoped they thought him valuable? 

The mask was draped over his face for so long now he barely had to make an effort. He offered a charming smile, gently placing the knife on the table. “I found this lying around in camp, yes?” He lied through his teeth, the smile never faltering. “I did not know it was yours, my friend.”

“You didn’t?” Alistair was still suspicious, but his shoulders went lax. “I mean… Sometimes I do forget things lying about… I guess… It could have happened. It doesn’t mean I trust you.” It was hardly a secret. “Anyhow. There’s nothing here for you to steal.” 

Zevran dropped his gaze to the necklace Alistair had been so entrapped by. “It seems to me you’ve found a trinket to loot already.” It was fun to rouse the human man. Leaning on the table, he rested his chin on a tanned hand and stretched his neck to take a better peek at the pendant. “Stealing jewelry is so very wicked of you, my friend. I reckon you Wardens are indeed naughtier than I’d thought.” 

Alistair rolled his big brown eyes, exhaling loudly. “I’m not  _ stealing _ . This is mine. By birth.”

“Mmm. I see. Andraste’s undying flame.” Zevran recognized the symbol on the pendant despite how cracked it was. 

“Didn’t think you’d know what it was,” the human said, glancing curiously at him.

Now that was some preposterous assumption on his part.

“Why not?” Zevran’s voice came out high pitched. “Even a Maker-hating Rivaini pirate would know that, hm?” 

“I guess… I bet Morrigan wouldn't though.” Alistair scoffed, a triumphant glimmer in his eyes, as if he'd just found something he could best the Wilds Witch at. 

Zevran pushed his elbows from the table, keeping only a palm on it on which to lean on. “Tell me. Are you a very religious man, Alistair?”

“Well, I… I was schooled in an Abbey. And raised here. Arl Eamon was always a pious man.” Andrastian symbols were not lacking in Redcliffe Castle. “But I don’t know. I wouldn’t say I am. Not particularly religious, I mean. This was my mother’s.” His warm brown gaze lowered to the pendant in his hand and he squeezed it tight. “What about you? I imagine it’s not in your line of work.” Alistair added, quick to steer the conversation from that last bit of information. 

A pity. It’d piqued Zevran’s interest. And he’d rather talk about Alistair’s mother, than put up with yet another assortment of assumptions. But he never did let an opportunity to rile someone up pass him by.

“Why do you say that?” He asked just to watch the human man frown in protest. “I happen to be quite devoted, in my way, as most Antivans are. Did you not know we fast every year? For a week --  _ Seven _ days of no solid food for as long as the sun is out, my friend! Can you Fereldan even begin to imagine? Thank the Maker for wanting us only to abstain from foods, yes? Or else I might have given up the Faith.”

“It surprises me you’ve ever joined the Faith at all.” Alistair admitted, knitting his brows. He rode a high horse and cast those judging looks, as if he stood above sinful assassins. As if the killing they did every day was so different, so mightier. As if only Chantry going men like him were worthy of the love of the Maker… And maybe it was true. Maybe Alistair was right and Leliana wrong. Zevran had given up trying to understand.

“I will have you know I too went to the Chantry as a child. Would you like me to sing the Chant of Light, my friend? Would that perhaps convince you that I am a man of Faith?” 

He actually did know about as many verses of the Chant as any peasant in Antiva did. What better way to see a brothel rid of children for several peaceful hours than to send them to the Chantry to be taught how to read and write? Some of the women even came along when they could. There were whores who clung tighter to the word of the Maker than the priests did.

He distinctly remembered Lucia’s big hazel eyes. She used to make the best fish chowder in the brothel, but she would put them through tedious Chant singing before letting them touch the food. And if any of them refused to sing, she refused them supper. She was also the one who put them through the fasting after Satinalia. Lucia believed that the Maker would bring change into her life if she prayed enough, if she repented enough. If she fasted and punished herself for enjoying the act of love. She used to burn the insides of her thighs with a hot knife, and get mocked by the rest of the whores for the scars.

He looked down at the burn on his hand which he hadn't asked Alec to heal. 

There was one girl in the brothel -- Just a year older than Zevran himself. Isadora. Lucia liked her more than she liked the rest of the children. Isadora was only half elven, and her round ears were enough to trick someone who did not know better. Lucia kept her away from the business, and they all talked about it… How Lucia wanted to make a sister out of Isadora. 

Zevran remembered being jealous, dreaming of round ears and the chance of being a brother too. Isadora spent more time than any of them at the Chantry, singing and helping the sisters instead of getting slapped on the back of the neck. She didn’t have to clean rooms that smelled of cum or worse, she didn’t have to wash the linen or massage any of the whores’ feet. Lucia made her different than the rest of them. 

But the Crows recruited children sooner than the Chantry did. And Isadora was no different than the rest of them when a price was offered for her head.

What choice was there?

“But… You’re an assassin.” Alistair protested. “You kill people... For money.”

“And I ask for forgiveness for my sins from the Maker every chance I get.” Zevran’s accent was thick, and he had to contain himself not to laugh. His r’s rolled. He didn’t bother trying to explain. Alistair likely wouldn’t bother trying to understand. Mocking was so much more entertaining. “What manner of monster do you think I am?” 

Alistair’s wrinkled nose was priceless, as if he couldn’t wrap his head around a difficult puzzle. “But... you ask forgiveness and then you go right on with your sinning!”

Zevran straightened himself up and rested hands on his hips. “Is it not true that the Maker has room for us all?” He took words from Leliana, words he didn’t even believe in.. “ _ He _ has never objected. Are you his seneschal? Why should you object?”

“I…” Alistair shook his head, like he had no clue where this conversation was going anymore. “I have no idea.” 

“Well there you go.” Zevran gesticulated, narrowing his eyes at the naïve human man. “Perhaps you ought to think about asking for a little forgiveness yourself, hm?” He walked around the room, honey eyes perusing statues on the shelves and paintings on the walls. One portrait was larger than the rest -- Some important noble in the family, no doubt. “Come now, Alistair. What would your mother say?” He nudged, curious to learn more about the woman who owned that precious necklace.

“That I need better companions than Antivan Crows?” Alistair jabbed playfully at him, easing his back on the chair. “Or Swamp Witches.”

Zevran chuckled. “You wound my heart, my friend. Alas. Not many skilled people are eager to fight Darkspawn, yes? Were I free to chose, I’d much rather be in a brothel in Antiva right now, far away from the Blight and in between a pretty lass’ thighs. Or a lad’s.” He wasn’t sure whether it was the last bit, or simply the talk of prostitutes, but conversation went limp as fast as a virgin young boy on his first lovemaking. There was a moment of quiet. Bronzed fingers ran through the rows of books on the shelves. “What happened to your mother?”

Alistair coughed into a closed fist. “She, uh…” He shifted on his seat. “She died... Giving birth to me. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

Deft fingers stopped on the spine of a book, and honey eyes looked at the title without reading it. With Connor, that made at least three of them in that castle who’d killed their own mothers. “A common enough fate. So did mine.” He said that with levity, with laughter in his voice, with ease. “It appears we have much in common, my Warden. Aside from stunning good looks, of course.”

“Of course.” The human scoffed. “And great hair.”

“Hair to make Andraste envious.” 

“Mm, I don’t know." The corner of Alistair’s lips turned upwards. “ _ Flaming _ hair is more Alec’s and Leliana’s territory.” 

Zevran laughed heartily and loudly, throwing his head back, making the best of the moment. It was the first time Alistair came down of that damned high horse to talk to him properly… He was going to relish those jokes, that fleeting moment. 

“If your mother died, and you were bought by the Crows as a child.” Alistair conjectured. “Then who raised you in between?” 

“The whores.” Zevran didn’t turn around to see the shock in the human man’s eyes. He knew it was there. 

He was pleasantly surprised that Alistair remembered the fact he’d been  _ bought _ . But he wasn’t surprised that the man couldn’t really grasp what that implied. AListair couldn’t have any idea what slavery was like -- Not if he’d grown up in a castle with golden adorned pillars. “My mother was one herself, naturally. I was raised communally with over a dozen orphan kids… Most unwanted breed, as you can imagine. It was a peaceful enough existence, however. And I was lucky to fetch a good price with the Crows.” Not everyone was so fortunate. Even fewer as lucky as Alistair. “And you were raised by Arl Eamon, is that so?”

“Well… Normally I’d say I was raised by slobbering dogs, the old cook and the Kennels master. But…” Alistair’s voice trailed, and Zevran looked over his shoulder to find him lost in admiration of the cracked pendant in his hands. His tone was grave, eyes stern and pensive. Almost remorseful. “Now I don’t know. Maybe Eamon did raise me, as much as he could. While trying to put out the fire.”

“What fire?”

“Lady Isolde.” Alistair sighed. “There were rumors -- wrong, of course, but they still existed. That I was the Arl’s bastard. She resented me because of it.” He ran a palm down his face, covered his mouth with it, staring into nothingness. Silence reigned for a moment, and eventually he just shook his head. “She was a good mother to Connor. She shouldn’t have had to die like that.”   


Zevran turned to the books again, suddenly uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. The woman had chosen death herself. And either way, what did it matter now? The deed was done.

“Tell me, Zevran,” Alistair straightened himself up. “Do you think we did the right thing?”

“And how would an assassin know what the right thing is, my friend?” He asked with an uneasy chuckle, shaking his head and putting a book back where it belonged. 

“What would you have done?”

A heavy sigh escaped his lips. “Killed the boy. If only because it would have saved us a lot of time, yes?” It was as honest an answer as he’d ever given. “But enough talk of the past. Talking too long about it is like rubbing your little finger and expecting a full salute.”

“Huh?” Alistair knitted his brows.

“A waste of time, my friend.” Zevran chuckled again, turning around and lifting his gaze to the portrait on the wall. “And who is this fine gentleman over here?”

“That’s Rendorn Guerrin. Arl Eamon’s father.” 

“And how did you end up here, if I may ask?” Zevran turned around and rested his back against a shelf. “Your father was the King, yes?” With Alistair’s nod, he went on. “What exactly was his and the Arl’s relationship?”

“Brothers in law.” Alistair scratched the stubble on his chin. He looked handsome. Tired, rugged, manly. There was something about him that made Zevran miss Taliesen’s strong grip. “Eamon’s sister was Queen Rowan, King Maric’s wife. My mother, they say, worked in the Castle.”

A wicked grin blossomed on Zevran’s lips. “So you were then sent to be raised by the brother of the Queen who’d been cheated on? I can only imagine the Arlessa wasn’t the only one who was less than happy with the situation, mm? The Queen must have been livid.” He was starting to sense there might be murder and intrigue behind the curtains of Alistair’s life story.

“Rowan was already dead. Two years before I was born.”

Or maybe there were no intrigue then. “Mm…” Zevran pouted slightly. “Here I thought Fereldan politics were finally getting a bit interesting. Alas, you have ruined it.” He inspected his nails, but they were pristine. “Did you know, In Antiva, we have a long tradition of royal bastards.”

“You don’t say?” Alistair rolled his eyes, pulling a handkerchief from his pouch and wrapping the pendant in it, then putting it back. 

“Oh, yes. They've led wars to claim the throne. Some of them have become kings.” Zevran pushed his back from the shelf, pacing around the study once more. “In fact, I'd say the current royal line in Antiva stems from bastard blood several times over.”

Alistair stood up. “First the fasting thing. Now royal bastards?” He snorted. “Aren't you just chock full of useless Antivan trivia today.”

Zevran narrowed eyes at him, grinning. “Sadly, whenever a royal bastard rears their head in public and declares themselves, it often goes poorly for them.”

“Let me guess: they get assassinated?”

Zevran shrugged, his smirk smug. “Only the very popular ones.”

“Good thing I’m not Antivan, not popular, and not rearing my head in public, then.” Alistair said with a humorous chuckle. “What happens to the unpopular ones?”

“Well, they get by somehow, I'm sure.” Zevran followed him out of the study, thinking back to the royal bastards he’d met of heard of. Prinze Arzin had had several killed along with his brothers and sisters in line for the throne. And then there were Prince Estefan’s children… One of which  _ her _ . If only the  _ Rosso Noche _ hadn’t stirred the pot. If that bastard Valisti hadn’t been so scared of what she meant. 

Zevran could understand why Alistair was so reluctant to even admit he was a King’s bastard. If Rinna, and her damned round ears, hadn’t gone rearing  _ her _ head in public.

But Alistair was a noble Warden, with friends in high places to boot. 

Rinna was a Crow, fated to end up with a knife across her throat sooner or later. 

Such treason he had thought her to commit -- Seizing the chance of being something more than a worthless weapon to be discarded when the edge went dull. If only it hadn’t taken her throat to bleed out before he could see that such was that they were… Worthless.

His smile didn't waver. “There was one fellow who did quite well working as a prostitute based on his uncanny resemblance to the king. Charged a fortune.”

This time it was Alistair who sported a smug smirk, turning to look at the elf with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Couldn't afford him, I take it?”

Honey eyes rolled up, and Zevran’s lips pursed for a moment. “That cynicism will serve you well, my friend. Hold onto it. Might come in handy for when this Loghain friend of yours shows up.”

Alistair scratched the back of his neck. “Do you ever stop talking, Zevran?”

He wagged blonde eyebrows at the human man. “Well, yes. There are in fact many ways to make me stop talking, my friend. My mouth is skilled at several other arts, if you’re interested.”

As if a bucket of ice had been poured on him, Alistair’s shoulders stiffened. His brows knocked and nose wrinkled, if only for a moment. His face was less expressive when he turned around to face Zevran, but not more at ease. “That’s a joke, right? You’re joking?” He asked, stopping by a doorway. 

Zevran forced out a loud laugh. “But of course, your Highness.” He turned a real flirt into a jest in a heartbeat, seeing as Alistair didn’t seem to find any amusement in his advance. 

But at least Alec had. 

There was still a chance he could take a shortcut into getting in these Wardens’ good graces. Just not with the royal bastard.    
  



	10. Circle Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [@DAfan7711](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711) for beta-ing this chapter.  
> (they've also started writing Zev/m!Surana of late so you guys should check their works out)

**TEN  
** Circle Bound

“ _The night is long, and the path is dark. Look to the sky, for one day soon. The dawn will come._ ”

Leliana’s voice was rich and melodic, echoing in the dark evening, ricocheting off the rocks that sat around them, amplifying and rising above all sounds on the empty road. Loud enough to scare off lurking predators, as well as to attract bandits. Were they wiser, they would keep camp quiet and dim, but they all seemed to need the distraction that music provided.

For the past five days they’d been marching themselves to exhaustion. Twelve hours each day, few stops for food, none for a proper bath -- They were traveling too far from lake Calenhad and had strode right past every stream, never pausing until they had covered the mileage Alec had planned for the day’s trek. The most washing up Zevran had gotten since Redcliffe was with a damp, warm cloth, and the only reason his feet weren’t bleeding with popped blisters was that Alec had healed them that morning.

Zevran wondered why the mage bothered with his aches and pains, and the only answer he found was that Alec didn’t want anyone to lag behind. It surprised him that, despite his hurry to get to the Circle and unwillingness to indulge in much these days but marching forward, the Warden had gone and purchased Leliana a lute from a merchant they’d ran into that afternoon.

Not that he objected. Music was soothing. The Orlesian girl was even more lovely than usual with a lute in her lap and that gentle smile on her lips as she sang.

Alistair had also been hiding a marvelous voice.

“You sing rather well, my friend,” Zevran praised him, and before Alistair mistook it for a flirt, he put on a mocking grin. “I’ve heard the Templars dote on their choir boys, yes?”

“Oh, believe me, none of the priests liked it when I was made to sing in the monastery.” Alistair chuckled. “I always just stood in the back muttering the alternative versions. Like -- _The cheese is salty, and the wine is dry. Go to the pot, ‘cause some time soon… They’re coming out._ ”

Much better than the hideous words was Alistair’s furious blushing as soon as he realized he’d just sung it out loud in front of everyone.

“Alistair!” Leliana playfully slapped his shoulder.

Sten grunted from behind the pair of humans. The Qunari had been sitting quietly in front of his own tent, sharpening his weapons and cleaning his armor, that same old stoic semblance on his face. It was impossible to tell whether he was enjoying the impromptu music night, or if he hated it completely.

Morrigan would probably have set them all on fire, but she was absent. For two days now, she’d simply disappeared. When asked about it, Alec said nothing but that she’d soon return. It wasn’t exactly an answer, but it was all they got. Her belongings had been left with Bodhan, who now joined his son feeding the tired oxen that pulled their wagon. The dwarves had dined with them by the campfire, but excused themselves when Leliana produced the lute.

Alistair coughed into a closed fist. “Anyhow,” he turned to Zevran. “Is _The Dawn Will Come_ popular in Antiva?”

“Indeed.” Zevran nodded, running fingers through his hair. It was slick with oil and dirt and he couldn’t stop touching it, irked by the texture, desperate to wash it properly. “People sing it in Trade tongue, too. I suppose the Antivan version didn’t dance.”

“And what’s Antivan music like?” Alec asked. He’d been quiet since they got to singing, chewing on the same bit of dried meat, watching Leliana play with a burning gaze, as if he could not miss a beat.

“The good music...” Grin crooked, Zevran tilted his head to the left to address the Warden at his side on the log. “Or the dirty songs they play in the taverns?”

“Not the dirty songs, please,” Alistair groaned.

Alec shrugged. “Anything. Just sing something.”

Zevran frowned. “What? Now?”

“Yeah.” The mage nodded. “You’ve never said anything in Antivan. I wonder what it sounds like.”

“ _Se vuoi, posso parlare Antivano._ ” His smile stretched, and he scooted closer just an inch, his voice dropping in tone. He knew people found the language sensual. More so when he leered at his target. Honey eyes roamed Alec’s freckled face, the shape of his nose and thin lips -- Which slowly turned upwards at the corners. Zevran liked the sweetness of that tiny smile. “ _Posso coprirti di complimenti, mio caro_.”

“What’s he saying?” Alistair asked Leliana, a soft whisper he probably thought Zevran wouldn’t hear over the crackling fire between them. Leliana shrugged, shaking her head.

“It’s--” Alec started, but was distracted by the large Mabari nuzzling his leg, big eyes watching the piece of meat between pale fingers, large tongue sticking out. “You want food? I’ve fed you already.” The mage said, giving the mutt an awkward pat over the head. “The only person here you can trick into feeding you again is Alistair. Go drool on his shoe, go.”

The human wasn’t even remotely put off by having the dog dropped on his lap. He snapped his fingers, cooing at the hound. “Come here, Crooky. Come ‘ere, boy.” Crookytail sauntered away to Alistair’s side, flopping down on his feet and tilting his head, begging for attention. “Don’t trust Alec. He’s mean. He’s not Fereldan -- How dare he not fall in love with you?” He scratched the mutt behind the ear. “You’re such a good boy. Yes, yes you are.”

Alec rolled his eyes.

“Do you know _‘Andraste’s Mabari’_?” Leliana asked, and started playing a very Fereldan tune. Zevran hadn’t heard it before, but Alistair knew it by heart. Their suave voices melded perfectly.

Alec finally finished his piece of dried meat. “I’ve read that in Tevinter, they mostly speak Trade tongue, and Tevene is more of a scholar language. And that slaves have their own dialects. Is it like that too in Antiva?”

“Everyone speaks at least two languages, yes.” Zevran agreed. “I grew up amongst whores in a brothel. As you can imagine, half of them were immigrants who had no other way of getting by in Antiva City but to sell… The illusion of love, yes?” He liked that way of putting it better than saying they were selling their bodies, even if the difference was nonexistent for most whores. The ones who did know how to sell that illusion, however, were often the most popular ones. “Clients, too, were often travelers. Trade tongue was the language of the business. And it wasn’t so different in the Crows.”

“Which language did you learn first?”

Zevran had to consider the question for a moment, rummaging through memories for any faint recollection of a time when his thoughts did not naturally navigate through languages. “I believe I learnt them together.” He said at last. “Some of the whores who raised me spoke _Antivano_ if there weren’t customers around. And some spoke _Trevisano_.”

“That’s a dialect?”

“A variant. Rather different from Antivan. It sounds a lot closer to the Rivaini languages.” He rested his bronzed palms down on the wooden log, stretching out his legs.

“So you speak that one too? Tre--Trevian?”

“Trevisan.” Zevran nodded, “ _sí_.”

“That’s impressive.”

“You think _I_ am impressive?” He teased with a raised eyebrow and a crooked smirk.

Alec chuckled, with a little shrug that didn’t answer the question at all. “With the Crows, did you only speak Common?”

“No, no at all. Proper Antivan is essential to get better contracts.” Zevran’s gaze steered to Alistair, watching the bastard prince caress Crookytail’s fur while singing alongside Leliana. “The Crows are knee-deep in Antivan politics. And politicians make a show of speaking high _Antivano_. Of course Trade tongue is indispensable to deal with foreign contractors, however. Such as your Loghain.”

Alistair’s ears perked like the dog’s when it heard the word ‘food’. “What about Loghain?”

“Nothing. Loghain’s dead meat.” Alec waved a hard dismissively. “Zev’s just trying to make me forget I asked him to sing in Antivan.” His head turned, cheeky grin plastered on his face. “Not working, by the way.”

The little shit of a Warden. _He_ was the one who never stopped with the odd questions. _What does Antiva smell like, what do the Crows do with the bodies, what does Antivan sound like…_

“Ah, yes, don’t let the prisoner escape his duties,” Zevran joked, delighting in the way Alec’s red brows knitted. “I do remember promising to entertain you, my friend. But I’m afraid Leliana won’t know any Antivan song.” Zevran wasn’t at all annoyed by the request. He was simply being a little shit in return.

“I was a traveling minstrel, Zevran.” Leliana pointed out. “I am sure I can improvise a rhythm to accompany your singing.”

“Ah, it seems I really can’t escape it.” He sat upright on the log, gaze shifting between the three pairs of expectant eyes. “Well, then. Let’s see… There is this one ballad about a pirate captain.” He cleared his throat, and started humming the rhythm, tapping a thumb on the log. Leliana did her best to pull that same beat from the chords of her lute, and when it sounded close enough, he followed with the words. “ _Un capitano in mezzo al mare, con una barca ed un cannone… È andato là per fare la sua guerra ad un nemico che non ha mai visto. Con sé ha portato il ritratto di una donna, con qualche lettera, con i suoi sogni…_ ”

Alec's orchard eyes hardly blinked, watching him with rapid attention. Zevran would not lie -- He enjoyed it. He liked the interest shown, the way Alec tapped a foot to the rhythm, the soft smile that lingered on his lips even after the song was over.

Leliana clapped. “That was a beautiful song, Zevran.”

“I am hardly as good a singer as yourself, my dear woman.” He gave her a foxy grin. “Best if you take over again.”

“Well, only if you sing with me.” Her tone was chirpy. “Like this. _Three Little Empresses, which of them is true?_ ” Her fingers drummed on the chords, then gestured for him to follow as she started it over. “ _Three Little Empresses, which of them is true?_ ” Zevran sang along, but the next line came only in Leliana’s voice. _“A simple glass of almond tea and now there's only two._ ” She emended with la-la-la’s, and then again, so he could join in.

He’d actually heard an Antivan version of that song before, and he knew how to start the next stanza even before the Orlesian bard lifted two fingers up. “ _Two little empresses, which will be undone? A dagger from beneath a cloak and now there's only one._ ”

“Must have been a Crow.” Alec joked over the second round of la-la-la’s.

Zevran chuckled, letting Leliana’s melodic voice finish the song alone.

“ _One little empress child, reaping what was sown... Only she knows which she was, and now she's on the throne._ ”

“And why aren’t _you_ singing, my friend?”

Alec shook his head. “I prefer playing.”

“Oh. So you play?” Zevran asked, quirking an eyebrow up.

“I do. Chantry songs, mostly. The sort we had to sing in the choir in the Circle.” Alec shrugged. “I found a few sheets lying around in old books over the years… A lot of Tevene music. But I can’t play like Leliana.”

“Why don’t you let us be the judge of that?”

“Can’t.” Alec waved his left hand. “That’s a right-handed lute. It’d take too long to restring it.” He flickered that same hand in the air, and the dying flames burnt harder. His gaze flickered to Leliana. “Is that song based on a true story?”

“A legend, yes.” The Orlesian girl rested the lute against the log, uncorked her canteen and took a sip. “They say Empress Merise, who ruled Orlais in the Steel Age, found two look alikes to her only child, and raised the three as triplets. So that if one died, she’d protect her lineage anyway.”

Alec rested elbows on his knees. “What if the one who remained was the one to kill the others to secure the throne for herself?”

Zevran laughed heartily. “Thinking like the human nobles who hire me, my friend.”

“Or like someone who read one too many books about them.” Alec chuckled as well, scratching his calf. “Not like there were many stories about elves, aside from Garahel.”

Alistair yawned, and Crookytail offered him a puzzled look. “I think it’s time I slept if I want to be awake for second watch,” he said, standing up and dusting off his pants. “Come on, Crooky,” he cooed to the hound, who whined quietly, needing another pat before he pushed himself up.

“Perhaps so should I,” Leliana agreed, picking up her belongings from around the campfire and bidding them good night before disappearing into her tent. Sten had long made himself scarce.

Honey eyes watched the dancing flames. Zevran had the first watch, and while he did not know why Alec hadn’t excused himself along with everyone else, he wasn’t about to shoo the Warden away. Quite the contrary.

“The Mabari, _Crookytail_... That was Garahel’s Griffon’s name, was it not?”

“His second name.” Alec stood up to fetch a pair of furs from his tent, one of which he handed to Zevran. “It was Thunder, at first. But after his rider died, Garahel renamed him Crookytail.” He smiled childishly. “For obvious reasons.”

“ _Codastorta_ , in Antivan.” Zevran set the fur down on the floor for later, a palm resting on the log; He turned to the side to face Alec. “We had a, how do you call it? A rhyming song... That urchins sang when they jumped rope. Or, as the case may be, when distracting shoppers from noticing they were being pickpocketed.” The little rhyme had suddenly flashed in his mind, so many years since the last time he’d heard it. All that singing might have brought it back. He scoffed humorously, dropping his voice to a soft whisper, reciting the doggerel.

“ _Vola, vola Garahel. Cavalca il tuo grifon nel ciel._  
_Scocca, scocca Garahel, Codastorta un fulmine è!_  
_Schiva, schiva, Andoral. Quante frecce puoi ancor scansar?_ _  
Uno, due, tre… il drago morto è!_ ”

The light of the fire was dim, but Zevran was close enough to see how Alec’s expression lit up. A large, genuine smile blossomed, red eyebrows going up. “That’s amazing.” The mage said. “It’s like… I don’t understand a word of Antivan, but I understand the rhyme. We had one just like that, too. Before I went to the Circle. It went like…

“Fly, fly, Garahel. Riding on a griffon’s back...  
Shoot, shoot, Garahel. Crookytail is oh so fast...  
Dodge, dodge, Andoral. How many arrows can you dodge?”

He tapped a thumb on his own knee as he recited it. “Kids would sing it, but I didn’t even know a thing about Garahel then… I only read the books about him in the Circle. Did you know that he came up with a plan to evacuate Wycome in improvised aravels pulled by Griffons and magic? In time to get people safely into Starkhaven… He and his sister did a lot of impossible things.”

“There is a monument for Garahel in Ayesleigh,” Zevran mentioned. “Or so the rumor goes.”

“That’s where he brought down Andoral.” Alec bit his bottom lip, and looked up at the starry sky. “I have no idea how we’re supposed to tell which Archdemon this one is. Razikale, Urthemiel, or Lusacan? King Calian didn’t believe it was really another Blight, but Alistair and I can _feel_ it. The Archdemon.” He shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out which one it is when I kill it.”

“If luck favors, and it doesn’t kill _you_ first.” Pessimism flowed unchecked from Zevran’s lips. He hadn’t expected it to affect Alec at all, however. The mage exhaled such determination that he doubted a bit of grounding would shake his resolve.

But the boy’s lips pursed into a thin line, and he closed his eyes solemnly, shoulders slumping.

“Luck does seem to be on your side.” Zevran tried to encourage him. “Perhaps a monument will be made for you yet, in one of your muddy Fereldan cities.”

Alec smiled again. “Or a rhyme.” He chuckled weakly. “Do you suppose elven children will chant my name while they steal from nobles?” He dipped a hand in his pocket, pulling out a ribbon and running slender fingers through his long hair, untangling the locks. “Or be inspired to be more than what other people told them they could be? It’s not like they want _us_ to be much.”

“Is that what Garahel did? Inspire you to be more?” Zevran wondered what ‘more’ even meant. He’d thought that being a Crow -- being a Crow with a number of successful missions under his belt -- was ‘more’. More than most elves like them could ever dream of being. They’d made him think he’d been lucky. “You’re a mage. I admit I thought the Circle treated elves better than the outside world.”

“It does. A little,” Alec agreed, gathering most of the red strands in a handful, pulling them up to tie his hair in a ponytail. “But life in the Circle is like reading just one page of a book. And you’re the villain no matter what. But with the Wardens… The Wardens work towards greater good. Whether you’re a mage, elf, or could give a shit about Andraste. Wardens demand respect, and earn it. It’s why I’ve always wanted to leave the Circle. I was nine when I decided I wanted to join the Wardens. Now I am one of two in the country, on the edge of a Blight.” There was some irony in his laughter.

Distracted by conversation, the knot he made barely held his hair up, and it fell down loosely. He grunted, making a disgruntled face. Zevran couldn’t help but chuckle. A leg thrown to the other side of the wood, he straddled the log, bronzed hands going up to touch the poorly tied ribbon.

“Allow me?”

Alec nodded, turning his back. Zevran pulled the ribbon, weaving fingers through silky red hair, combing it down even though that was entirely unnecessary. But the longer his bronzed fingers brushed through the red strands, more the Warden’s shoulders dropped, relaxing into the tender touch. Zevran only regretted not being able to see his face. Was he enjoying it?

He let his gaze wander Alec’s slender back, the freckles on his nape, the bony structure of his shoulders. He scooted imperceptibly closer, drinking in the mage’s scent. His clothes smelled like a health poultice, but Alec’s skin didn’t smell like anything, which was saying something. Even his hair was impossibly clean for someone who hadn’t had a bath in a stream or tub in days.

Zevran wished he could play with his smooth hair longer… He pictured himself burying fingers in it while Alec’s thin lips kissed his throat, his chest and his stomach… And south.

His eyes rolled shut, and he swallowed dry at the thought of more.

Seducing was a matter of letting oneself actually _want_ the target and show it, and he was doing just that.

Thankfully for him, it wasn’t particularly difficult to find things he liked about the elf. “Your hair is such a marvelous, unique color. So fiery,” he flattered him, tone dropping to a flirty whisper as he pulled the Warden’s hair up, fingers brushing gently along his long ear. “Should I braid it?”

“No. Just tie it.” Alec shook his head slightly. “And gingers are everywhere. It’s dead common.”

“In Ferelden, perhaps. In Antiva, however, gingers are a rare sight.”

“Well. I guess nothing screams ‘Fereldan’ better than a redhead, innit?” Alec turned his head to glimpse at him. “Even Leliana -- One look at her and you know she’s got Fereldan blood.”

Zevran’s lips turned upwards. “Not very _Ander_ , is it? Ginger hair?” He’d known for a while now that Alec had lied about his origins, but he found pleasure in nudging him.

But the dissimulated mage didn’t even try to hide it. He laughed knowingly. “Not very, no.”

“Common or not, red suits you rather well, my friend. Not just because you’re Fereldan.” Zevran tied the ribbon tightly around the ponytail. “You’re a bit of a flammable force of nature yourself, yes? Dangerous, tricky with your lies, and very determined.” A hand dropped to his shoulder, a touch that Alec didn’t shy away from, staring back with unreadable orchard eyes. “You wanted to be a Warden. And you are.”

The mage looked away, at the flames that kept them heated even as the night grew chilly. “An opportunity appeared, and I jumped on it... I begged the Warden Commander to take me in.” He scoffed, side eyeing Zevran. “Not unlike you, come to think of it.”

“Well, I begged you to take me in so I’d live another day,.” Zevran chuckled humorlessly.

It had been a spur of the moment decision. Not a long-held wish.

He pulled his hand away, and Alec turned around on the log, facing him. “So you would go back to the Crows if you had the chance? If you knew for a fact they would not kill you for failing?”

“I--” Zevran stuttered, a despondent, heavy sigh between plush lips. It just wasn’t something he was willing to talk about with anyone, let alone someone he’d known for twelve days. But the answer was so, so simple it fled through his lips. “No.”

“So you wanted to leave already,” Alec concluded, knitting pale red eyebrows. “Why?”

“Well now, I imagine that’s a fair question,” Zevran exhaled loudly, running fingers through his oily hair and looking down at his digits. Dried blood dirtied the skin around the nails. “Being an assassin is a living, at least as far as such things go. Much like you and your Circle of Magi, however, I was simply never given the opportunity to choose another way. So if that choice presents itself, why should I not seize upon it?”

“ _I_ think you should, if that means anything.” Elbows resting on his knees, Alec laced his fingers together. “You said you were bought as a child. You never said how young.”

“A boy of seven,” Zevran told him. “They purchased me for three sovereigns, I’m told. Which is a good price, considering I was all ribs and bone and didn’t know the pommel of a dagger from the pointy end. I didn’t even _know_ the Crows existed when I joined them.” His heart tightened at the blurred memory of that fated day Isidora Arainai bought him. A lump grew in his throat, but he laughed to mask the pain in his voice. The sorrow in his heart. “It is how it is.” He lifted his gaze to Alec. “When the Templars came for you, did you know where they were taking you?”

“Yes, and no? I’d heard that mages were dangerous, and kept in Circles so everyone could be safe. I had no idea what it really meant, a _Circle_. It was just a word.” Alec shrugged, unlacing his hands to adjust the fur over his shoulders. “It was so much better than an alienage, but it wasn’t safe at all. Anyone without a backbone is doomed to die in there. Either they become prey to a demon, or the Templars, or they suicide.”

“Mm,” Zevran nodded. There was a beat of silence. The woods behind them rustled. “Not unlike in the Crows. They buy all their recruits young, and raise them to know nothing else but murder. And if you do poorly in your training, you die. I was purchased with seventeen other urchins, and I was one of the only two to make it through the first year.”

Alec’s orchard eyes widened. “Sixteen died in the first _year_?” He repeated. “Fuck. Here I thought there was nothing worse than the Circle. The Crows sound like it, though.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Being a Crow does mean doing what is expected of you, always. It also means being expendable enough that a single mistake can be your undoing. It’s a cage. If a gilded one. Pretty, but confining. But it isn’t as bad as being a Circle mage.” Zevran tried to downplay his misfortune, out of habit more than anything else. He didn’t want anyone’s pity -- Not that Alec seemed to be pitying him.

Perhaps they had a lot in common, having been imprisoned in a cage at young age, and raised to be someone else’s weapon. They were both villains, no matter what. Maybe that was why he didn’t feel disbelieved in this conversation. Zevran didn’t feel judged for pitying _himself_.

But he wasn’t sure what he wanted.

When Leliana offered forgiveness, he felt undeserving. When Alistair pointed a finger and chastised his actions, he felt misjudged. When Alec seemed to understand, he felt as though he were whining. Uncomfort made him shift on his seat.

It was easier to just wear the mask.

“Unlike in your Circle of Magi, where all you seem to do all day and night is read, the Crows who are actually good enough to survive come to enjoy some of the benefits of the life. Being a Crow gets you respect--”

"And wealth." Alec finished for him. "And women, and _men,_ so you've told me." He waggled eyebrows suggestively.

Zevran grinned widely, eyelids dropping. He felt more comfortable flirting now than a week ago, when they’d had a similar chat. “So it is. Women and men. Whatever it is you might fancy.”

The Warden crossed an arm over his chest, and brought his other hand to his own chin, thumb riding along his handsome jawline. “What do you fancy, Zev?” He looked like he was trying not to grin.

“Many things.” Zevran actually grinned. “I fancy things that are beautiful, and things that are strong. I fancy things that are dangerous and exciting.” It was all true, and he could find ways to make Alec fit all of these categories, if he needed.

His eyes openly roamed Alec’s frame, taking their time appreciating the little things that made the boy beautiful -- Like those bright eyes, and the endless freckles. The confidence with which he carried himself. “Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?”

The corner of Alec’s lips twitched upwards. “‘ _Dangerous_ ’ and ‘ _exciting_ ’, is it?” He chuckled, his shoulders quaking. “I’m hardly what anyone would call strong, though. Unless magic counts.”

“Strong enough to beat me. Deadly and gorgeous, if you do not object to me saying so.” Zevran insisted, trying to get more clear an answer from the mage than that sly smirk.

“That description is better fit for _you_ ,” Alec bounced back. “Your barley blond hair,” he gestured. “Strong arms, and thighs. You're an Antivan Crow… The definition of deadly.” His gaze traveled down to Zevran’s legs, and he wet his lips. “You could have whomever you wanted.”

Desire stirred within him. He hadn’t expected to be the one flattered back. And he did not object in the least. The wolfish grin on his lips probably said as much. He could listen to the Warden praising him all night long, in the warmth of either of their tents. Less clothing in the way, hopefully.

“But we’re in the middle of a Blight, Zev.” Alec popped the bubble, straightening himself up. “I’ve seen a horde of Darkspawn kill an entire army. I lost my--” His voice faltered, and he gulped. Pale hands went for the water canteen, and Zevran could almost swear they trembled. He drank long gulps, letting silence hover between them.

“I don’t actually believe in fate, but I was born for _this_.” Alec said gravely. “I’ll end this Blight if it takes my life too.”

Such determination. It was admirable, if stupid. The heroic types always died. At least Alec had read enough books to know what awaited him at the end of the road.

Maybe he needed some levity. “All the more reason to enjoy the pleasures of life from where they come, while you can.” Zevran wagged his eyebrows. “It’s a motto I’ve lived by my whole life. An assassin never knows if tomorrow’s coming. Less so when fighting blighted creatures.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Alec offered him the water canteen. “But… You’re not a Warden. No one said _you_ have to give your life to end the Blight.” The smile he offered was gentle. “And if you survive, what will you do then?”

Zevran sipped the water, then returned the canteen to the Warden. “Well, presuming there is a future to be had… I--” He racked his brain, trying to see beyond tomorrow. All he could see was himself in a bar, drinking his sorrows away like he’d done in Rialto. A brothel and a whore’s legs. He picture himself walking through rooftops, daggers in hands, a mark somewhere, a contract he chose on his own volition, and for which the payment was fully his. It sounded empty and grey and suffocating, and maybe dying was still better… “It might be interesting to go into business for myself, for a change.” He told Alec, because he didn’t have the heart to admit that he didn’t truly care whether tomorrow came.

He wanted to care, but every morning he regretted it enough to wish it hadn’t come at all.

“Far away from Antiva, of course. But for now, naturally, I go where you go.”

“How many times. You’re not my fucking servant, Zev.” Alec snapped, red brows knitted. The gentle smile entirely gone in a split second. “You keep joking that you’re my prisoner. You’re not.” He shook his head, and gestured to the tents where their companions slept. “Alistair is a Warden. Leliana wants to help. Sten decided this is a worthy way to atone for his crimes. And Morrigan…” He looked up at the sky, taking a calming breath. “I assume she has a reason, and I don’t need to know it. She’s helpful. As are you.” His orchard gaze returned, anger still flaring. “I’m happy to have you, but I’m not keeping you. You’re not chained to me. You can leave if you want.”

Zevran felt a flicker of despair surge within himself. “I can’t.” He said firmly. “I am as good as dead if I leave.” The Crows would kill him, and that wasn’t how he wanted to die. In fact, what he wanted was to _stop_ _wanting death_ , for Andraste’s sake! He wanted a reason to care whether there would be tomorrow or not. Why couldn’t Alec just give him a fucking reason? Why couldn’t the Maker send _him_ a sign? Was he that fucking worthless? That unredeemable? That foul?

“I have been trying to be useful to your party of companions. And if I joke, it is simply because you don’t make a habit of asking for things to be done. You give orders.” He noticed the sharp bite in his tone, and forced out a friendly smile, making himself sound flippant and servient again. “Which is all well and dandy with me, my Warden... Nevermind the jest. I am known to exaggerate, yes? Helping a handsome Warden end a Blight is far greater a quest than being slaughtered by the Crows. I am happy to be had.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm contained. It wasn't that he disliked how the Warden lead their ragtag group, it was simply that now that it was out, he couldn't contain that bubbling irritation. “Isn’t it wonderful how things work out that way?”

Alec’s orchard eyes narrowed, staring intently at him. Silence reigned, awkward. Zevran was on the verge of adding a sexual joke about looking forward to being chained by him -- in a more literal sense -- when the Warden pushed himself up.

“Wait here,” Alec said.

What a complete disaster. Zevran reproached himself. Now the Warden was going to send him packing for sure… And then what? He ran both palms down his face, taking a deep breath, then let his shoulders drop. The ages-old mask was back in place when footsteps got closer. He put a smile on.

“Here,” the Warden put a pouch in front of him.

Frowning, Zevran accepted it, weighing the little bundle in a palm. Something clinked inside. He didn’t have to open it to know it was coin.

“You’re right. I was exploiting your work, and I didn’t notice.” Alec sat down again. “Between supplies, weapons, armor, food… There isn’t much to spare. I don’t think this is as much as you’d make if you went into business for yourself as an assassin, but I’ll pay you what I can -- For slaughtering Darkspawn for the Wardens. And whenever leaving becomes an option, you can take it. If that’s fair.”

Zevran blinked twice. Something hammered inside his chest, drumming against his ribcage.

“Don’t look so surprised.” Alec chuckled, running a hand through the ponytail. “I’m not _that_ much of an asshole. I’m just… I don’t know. Trying to make things work.” He placed both palms on the back of his neck. “If there’s something you don’t want to do, you can tell me.

“If you don’t agree with something I’m doing, say it. The only thing is... I’ve got enough problems in my hands and I don’t really need more road blocks. I’m grasping at straws here too. You got a problem, offer some solution, is all I’m asking. Don’t be like Alistair, yelling at me that I’ve done something ‘ _bad’_ \-- whatever the fuck bad even means at this point. Offer a feasible suggestion, some fucking alternative. I’m listening. If you’ve got none, then what am I supposed to do, stand around waiting for the Maker to shine a light, while Darkspawn litter the South of the country?” Alec sighed heavily, resting his forehead on his own knees.

Zevran said nothing, and the Warden eventually lifted his head and continued. “I wish griffons still existed, but that’s not gonna happen, is it? Can’t count on Andrastian miracles or perfect solutions when people are dying. Alistair and I are two -- fucking _two --_ outlawed Wardens and need to assemble an army before the Archdemon rears its fucking face. Or all of this is going to be wasteland like Antiva in the Exalted Age. I ain’t got time to please Orlesians _and_ Fereldans.”

The stress he was under was felt in his tone. His shoulders were stiff. Zevran could have offered a massage, but he figured now wasn’t the time.

“I don't think any less of you for being an Antivan Crow. I am mage, for Andraste's sake. I don't care that you tried to kill us, either -- I'm taking my chances believing in you. Because I want to count you as an ally, Zev.” Alec let out a weary sigh. “And I need people like you -- Smart, pragmatic... _Resilient_ people to count on.”

Zevran’s heart pounded harder. As used as he was to compliments, they usually regarded his outstanding good looks and charm -- Not his… _Resilience_. Whether it was true, or if he’d only survived this long out of sheer luck, he wasn’t quite sure. But the Warden wasn’t just distilling empty words. The weight of coin in his hands proved Alec meant it.

He wasn’t expendable.

“Oh, my Warden, but you do know how to sway me,” Zevran put a hand on his bony knee, that lecherous smile back on his lips and a burning need to steer this conversation away from heavy matters. “Flattery will get you everywhere. And it will get _me wherever you want me._ ” He had to turn it into a flirt, of course. Especially now that he knew the interest was somewhat mutual.

“I’ll remember that next time I need you to kill little children for me. Say, you’re so handsome it wouldn’t even be that sinful.” Alec broke out in laughter, and Zevran cracked up as well.

Sten grumbled from his tent. “ _Parshaara_. Be quiet already.”

“Note to self: Try not to mention killing little children if Sten can overhear.” Alec giggled, placing his palm atop Zevran’s on his own knee. The mage squeezed his bronzed hand, gaze intently holding his. “I hadn’t meant to use you, Zev.” His voice dropped, tone sultry and lewd. “You’ll know if I decide to.” He winked, and unlaced their hands, standing up and stretching his arms.

“See there, what you’ve just done,” Zevran said with feigned annoyance. “Now I will spend the rest of my watch imagining you _using me_ , my Warden. In the best of ways. The anticipation will kill me.”

“You started this, Zevran. You’re to blame.”

“Such a cruel man, you are.”

“Sadist, yeah. Didn’t people warn you not to trust mages? I have a reputation to keep.” Alec scoffed, and reached a hand out to ruffle Zevran’s hair. “Good night, then.”

Zevran watched him disappear into his tent, the dim light of a magical wisp soon shining through the canvas. He could make the elf’s silhouette as he undressed and lay down, a book on his lap. Alec, he had already noticed, never slept early. And was often the first one up.

Perhaps this quest they were on really needed more helping hands. Maybe Alec did need more allies he could count on unrestrictedly.

And it was good to have one’s contributions recognized. Zevran liked being appreciated.

He felt light.

Sliding down to the grass, closer to the fire, Zevran adjusted the fur around his shoulders, and finally opened the pouch to count the coin he’d been paid.

Alec was a beautiful asshole.

“Three fucking sovereigns.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been so hectic this chapter took forever! I hope you guys enjoy it! Let me know. <3
> 
> I find it relevant to mention my knowledge of Italian is limited to basic self-studying and heavily dependant on online translators. If any Italian speakers out there see mistakes in the sentences and want to correct me, **PLEASE DO**.  <3 I would be ever so grateful.
> 
> And yes, I am well aware that most instances of Antivan in canon are Spanish, but I chose to HC it as Italian. Personally, I love the language. I also think Antiva’s culture and history are very Italian-coded, and David Gaider also hc’s it as Italian (as per [this Zev fic](http://raymurata.tumblr.com/post/158147986825/dgaider-misidoesthings-zevran-told-rosha) he published on Tumblr), which is why I think I’m not breaking canon by doing this. Besides, the “Trevisano” Zevran mentioned in this chapter would be Spanish.  
> At any rate. I entirely respect and support people who write Antivan as Spanish, so I just ask the same of you guys reading me! <3 Thanks! ( Also Zev did say "capisco". Alec doesn't remember! XD If you guys do, kudos! )  
>   
> Lots of references/disclaimers for this chapter, goodness:  
> > [ La ballata del marinaio (Luigi Tenco) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2n0wwoEAoqE) \- lyrics adapted to “la ballata del capitano” to make it more pirate-like, since Antiva doesn’t have a royal navy  
> >Three Little Empresses -- lyrics written by bioware. In my head I imagine Leliana singing [this melody by Ingrid Windsland. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ys3UdrOJB48)  
> > [Garahel’s doggerel (in English) by @rederiswrites ](http://rederiswrites.tumblr.com/post/157404129191/so-whenever-any-cool-cultural-tidbit-is-brought-to) (used with permission)  
> > [Italian version by @diesvitae](http://diesvitae.tumblr.com/post/157854362147/italian-speakers-out-there)  
> > Zevran's seduction 'tactics' heavily based on [this meta by @turbootaku](https://ridiculouslyzevran.tumblr.com/post/156018206199/zevran-the-seducer)
> 
> Also you can blame [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark) (who writes awesome Zev/f!Tabris so GO READ HER!) for showing me the song "[Whatever it takes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGlEZpOVjGo)", which is **so Alec** and was playing on repeat in my mind while I was writing this chapter.
> 
> And there are so many italics! Italics everywhere! Maker help us all.


	11. The Templars of Kinloch Hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark) and [DAfan7711](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711) for beta-reading this chapter! <3  
> (Seriously, folks! Go read their stuff!)

**ELEVEN  
** The Templars of Kinloch Hold

 

“Your bow?” Zevran asked.

“Very useful, but no,” Leliana said as they trekked along the Imperial highway.

Zevran looked around them, a thousand useful things coming to mind, from his boots to the pavement on the road. Whatever had she laid her gaze upon? “Bodahn’s wagon?”

Leliana tilted her head, disbelief in her big blue eyes. “How did you guess so fast?”

“I am not just ridiculously good-looking, my dear woman. I am also smart, so I am told.” He grinned wolfishly, then turned his head, watching Alec and Alistair march next to Bodahn and Sandal’s wagon. “My turn, then. I spy… Something round.”

“The sun?”

“No.” Zevran unsheathed a knife from his belt.

“Bodahn’s wagon’s wheel?”

“No.” He twisted the knife between his fingers to pass the time.

The Orlesian girl gazed left and right. “Oh. Coin!”

Zevran chuckled. “Might as well have been something I would choose, but no.”

“Mmm.” She scratched her chin. “I’ve given you tips. Your turn.”

“Okay, okay. Fair enough.” His grin stretched, sly as a snake’s. “There is… More than one, yes? And… It looks quite delectable.”

Leliana’s gaze followed his, back to Bodahn’s cart and their food supplies. “The apples?”

“One last chance.”

“Ugh,” she groaned, throwing her head back, letting a few moments of silence pass. “Wait.” She snapped back, narrowing her lovely eyes at him. “Zevran. It’s not my -- Er, my rear, is it?”

Mirthful laughter flew unbidden from his lips. “Close enough, my dear woman, but unfortunately I did not have a very good view of _your_ bottom just now.” His amber gaze traveled to the pair of Grey Wardens walking ahead of them -- More specifically, to the tall, well-built human man, and his lovely backside. “Alistair’s, on the other hand…”

Leliana giggled. “Zevran. You’re impossible.”

Sheathing his knife, he extended his palm up. “What I am is five silvers richer.” Leliana fished another silver coin from her pouch and gave it to him.

“To make up for the twenty you’ve already lost,” she jabbed playfully at him.

Zevran couldn’t think of a better way to spend his recent earnings. “The day is long, _bella_ ,” he said, looking up at the afternoon sun hidden behind Fereldan clouds.

A raven cooed loudly. It had been hovering above them for a while now. If he were prone to Rivaini superspersticions like one of the whores he’d grown up with, he’d have thought it an omen -- But some time later the bird landed on Alec’s shoulder, a bleeding talon staining his clothes, and instead of shooing it away, the Warden promised to heal it, getting little squeaks from the bird as if it could understand people’s language.

_Morrigan._

When they paused for food, Alec carried the bird far from everyone’s curious eyes, and returned half an hour later with a perfectly healthy Witch of the Wilds. Quite a useful trick, Zevran would not lie. If he could be an _actual_ crow, he didn’t think he’d ever leave the skies.

“The horde took Lothering.” Alec told his fellow Grey Warden, fetching a map of Ferelden and unrolling it between the two of them. “Morrigan says it’s only about half the size it was in Ostagar. She saw them as she flew by.”

“At least most of the families in Lothering had already fled the village by the time we left it,” Leliana chimed in. “The Darkspawn probably found it deserted.”

“That’s what I hope, too,” Alec agreed. “Another half of the horde went Southeast, so I assume it’s headed towards Gwaren -- Most populated town in the area.” He bit his bottom lip, looking up at Alistair. “Do you think Loghain will defend it?”

“I don’t know.” Alistair scratched the back of his neck. “Last we heard he was in Denerim with all of his army.”

“Morrigan says a lot of the Darkspawn are spread out, besides these two bigger fronts. Smaller groups littering every land in the south. Farms have all grown black.” He curled up his lips, staring at the map with red brows knitted.

Zevran found he looked quite adorable like that -- Pouting.

Alec sighed. “We can’t divide efforts or try to anticipate where these scattered groups are going next, but the section of the horde that is still unified, in Lothering? We’ve got to stop it. If it keeps going upwards on the Imperial Highway, it’ll hit Crestwood next.”

“Or spread through the Bannorn,” Alistair added. “Crops and livestock will be all destroyed.”

Alec ran his finger along the drawn road, knitting his brows. “We’ll be in Kinloch Hold soon. I’ll send word to Crestwood so they can evacuate the town. And to Eamon to get in touch with the banns. If we have the mages, the templars and soldiers in the southern bannorn, we should engage the horde. But we’ll need a fortified village to make a stand.”

“But that’s just Ostagar’s horde,” Alistair protested. “They’re not much compared to what we can feel in the dreams. Should we risk these soldiers already? If they die, and _we_ die, then who will fight the Archdemon?”

Alec’s eyed flared angrily up at him, mouth parting open but no sound coming. He glanced briefly at Zevran, and then back to his fellow Warden. He exhaled loudly, nodding. “Fair point, Alistair. But should we let such a large horde advance and spread? We need a strategy. A good one.” He rolled up the map and sealed it, standing up tall. He patted Alistair on the arm. “Let no thought but that occupy your mind while we march to the Circle. Together we must come up with something.” Picking up an apple and a piece of cheese, Alec turned to the rest of them. “And by together, I mean all of us.”

Well, that was quite an improvement from giving orders. He wondered if the sudden change in Alec’s behavior had anything to do with their chat.

His orchard gaze landed on Zevran, a sheepish smile on the corner of his lips. “I’m all ears to suggestions.”

“As we elves like to say,” Zevran added with a humorous chuckle while they collected everything else to march forward. “Particularly true in our dear Warden’s case.”

Alistair giggled at the joke, and Alec side-glanced him. “You’re laughing at jokes at elves’ expense now, Alistair? How very _oppressively nobleman_ of you.”

“Wait, what? No.” The human man’s cheeks went pepper red. “Zevran made the joke.”

“He can. He’s an elf, too.” Alec turned to Zevran, smirking and winking before he turned back to Alistair, face regaining a serious semblance. “Do you think my ears are for your entertainment?”

“I, er-- No.” Alistair frowned. Zevran witnessed just the moment his brown eyes glimmered with mischief. “I’m pretty sure they’re for hearing.” He grinned triumphantly. “Maybe shade on a sunny day?”

Alec’s face fell, and Zevran laughed raucously.

Leliana stifled a giggle behind a palm. “They’re lovely, large ears, Alec,” she complimented him, reaching a hand out and squeezing the tip of his right ear between her index and thumb.

Alec stiffened at the touch, shoulders hunching, leading the Orlesian girl to retract her intruding fingers. Zevran laughed loudly. Leliana had clearly never been with an elf before.

Alec took a bite of his apple, shoulders dropping again. “You know what they say about elven men.” He said, equal parts nonchalance and smugness in his tone. “The larger his ears…”

“The bigger his sword.” Zevran finished with a grin.

“The bigger his _staff_.” Alec winked at him.

“Men,” Morrigan groaned. Zevran could _hear_ her eyes rolling. He laughed again.

The road was just as perilous and strenuous as every other day, but Zevran’s steps weren’t as heavy. For the couple of days since his fireside chat with Alec, he’d been trying to entertain the notion of a life free of the Crows. A future in which the Blight was beaten, and he was his own man. He’d pushed himself beyond the smell of wine, the picture of rooftops and dripping daggers, and found a warm, orange sunset in the horizon of his imagination. Music and the invigorating scent of food in the background. Maybe there was something he wanted for the day after tomorrow.

As the clouds dispersed, the gentle Fereldan sun kissed his skin, warm and pleasant, and time flew like a bird. The first moon eventually rose up high, and night dropped its veil over the sky. They were close enough to arrive tonight, and they decided to power through that last leg.

It was dark when they approached the docks, but one could still make out the shape of Kinloch Hold in the distance. The ridiculously tall tower sat in the middle of Lake Calenhad, an imposing figure unreachable through land. The docks themselves were humble -- Poorly made structures in comparison to the solid, stone-made Tevinter-looking ruins that withstood the centuries. The ruined bridge had been large enough for a wagon bigger than Bodahn’s, were it still intact.

The Chantry had not bothered rebuilding any of it.

"Do you see the tower?” Leliana gasped. “The view from the top must be spectacular!"

Morrigan wasn’t impressed. "How very fitting that they would build a prison for mages in the middle of a lake and make it look like a giant phallus."

"Humans over-compensating as always," Sten agreed with a grunt.

"Are you concerned about the shape?” Alistair chimed in. “What I wonder is why the mages built their tower at Lake Calenhad. Do they have an aversion to practicality or something?"

“No. But the Chantry definitely has an aversion to any kind of freedom.” Alec said. “For the mages, of course, if that wasn’t clear enough.” His tone was bitter.

Sten sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

The surface of the water glimmered almost unnaturally, and Zevran’s nose wrinkled. "Uh, do you think that perhaps there are magical beasts swimming in the lake, guarding the tower? A ploy to keep mages from escaping?"

“The lake is an efficient enough ploy. It’s not like many mages can swim. And even if they can, they either die trying to swim through, or get caught and punished.” The mage grumbled, pulling his bundle from his back and rummaging through the contents while he spoke. “I’ve seen both happen.” Alec left some books and all camping gear, but replenished his bag with poultices and other vials. He lifted his head, turning around and facing the extensively large lake ahead.

He took a deep breath.

“Anyone wants a drink before we get there?” Alec asked, head tilting to the left, towards a handful of wooden buildings by the docks.

A lamp-lit sign hanging in front of the nearest door read “ _Spoiled Princess_ ,” a foaming tankard carved on it.

“I thought we were in a hurry?” Alistair asked.

“I want to see if we can find out what’s up beforehand.” Alec fastened his bag to his belt and started towards the tavern. “I don’t trust the Templars there. I don’t trust Templars, period.”

“That sure makes me feel confident.” Alistair chuckled nervously. “I mean, not like we’re headed to a place full of mages that don’t trust Templars.”

Alec flung the tavern’s door open and held it for the rest of them. “On the bright side, you are an _ex-_ Templar, Alistair.”

“Great. Much better. Since, you know...” Alistair flailed hands about. “Mages just love me."

“I need you with me, though. The First Enchanter will hear me out, but the Knight-Commander is more likely to want me locked up again.” Alec strode to the counter and fumbled his pockets for coppers, dropping a handful of coins on the wooden surface. “A round of ale for us,” he told the barman. “I’m going to need you as a buffer.”

Alistair leaned on the counter. “Would they attack you -- A Grey Warden?”

The barman set overflowing tankards on the counter, and Alec didn’t waste a moment raising his and chugging down half of its contents in one single go. He rested the tankard down again with a loud thunk. The smirk he offered then was deliciously wicked. “Can’t tell you what they will do. But who knows? _I_ might be the one to attack _them_.”

“Riiight.” Alistair furrowed his brows, tilting his head at his fellow Warden. “So who exactly am I supposed to buffer?”

Alec chuckled, sliding a tankard over the counter to his fellow Warden. “Here, drink.”

Zevran got his and Leliana’s and sat down with Sten. The ale wasn’t all bad.

“What’s the word from the Circle?” Alec asked the bartender. “I heard something's happened.”

“Something did. No idea what.” The man shrugged. “Business has been slow. Templars usually come here when they’re off-duty but I haven’t seen any in a week. And Kester isn’t manning the boat either. Templar recruits are taking shifts, is all I know. Not like we go around meddling, is it? Mages’ business is better left to the Templars.”

He tried to get more information from the bartender, but all he managed was to set him off on a long rant about his sister, and how she’d ruined their father and ended up dead in Denerim. Realizing there was no more information to gather, the mage downed the rest of his ale and urged them to collect their weapons and essentials to head out.

He and Morrigan exchanged words in private, and the Witch did not accompany them to the docks. A young Templar stood by the boat, a yawn hidden behind a palm, boredom in his eyes.

“You!” He said, noticing them. “You’re not looking to get across the tower, are you? I have strict orders not to let anyone pass!”

“I remember you.” Alec narrowed his eyes, approaching the man. “Fresh Templar. Charged with the apprentices. Likes stealing food from them.”

“Well, I don’t remember _you_ , so you’re probably just telling lies.” He shifted his weight, crossed arms over his chest and stood taller. He was tall enough to tower over the Warden. “If you can’t see, right now I’m tasked with _not letting anyone_ through. That includes you, whoever you are.”

“I am interim Commander of the Grey Wardens, also a mage from this very same Circle--” He paused, inhaling loudly. “Wh-whether you remember me or not.”

Zevran stood behind him, and couldn’t see his face, but something about his stance was weird.

Alec sounded tired. “I’ve business with First Enchanter Irving and with the Knight-Commander. So… row us through.”

“You’re a Grey Warden, are you?” The Templar laughed in his face. “Prove it.”

“I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

“Well, then it’s just words, isn’t it? You’re the Warden Commander, and I’m the Queen of Antiva.”

Zevran snorted. “You have turned into a rather hideous abomination, Your Majesty. Perhaps you should call the mages for help.” He laughed mockingly, getting stifled giggles from Leliana.

“I’m not hideous! You’re hideous!” The Templar whined back, scowling. “Anyway. It was nice chatting with the lot of you. Now on your way,” he waved them away. “Right now. Go.”

Alec’s grip on his staff tightened. “You listen here,” he started, taking a shaky step forward, body leaning heavily on the rod. Something was definitely wrong.

Alistair stood at his side, and might have noticed it too, because he landed a large, gloved palm landed on Alec’s shoulder, intervening before the Templar ended up a block of ice in the bottom of the lake. “Are we sure we can’t… Er-- Can’t we work something out?”

“Well.” the Templar uncrossed his arms, shifting his gaze to Leliana and smiling with want. “That redhead over there… She doesn’t need to go to the tower, does she? Because… It gets a little lonely out here sometimes… and you know,” he drawled his words, his gaze shying away from all of theirs as he voiced what he most certainly knew was a foul request. “You could leave her with me.”

Leliana gasped. “What?”

Zevran had been here before; Many years had buried those days in the past, but bile surged up, hot and unpleasant, heart racing even though he had long trained it not to. His hands, steady, found the pommels of his dagger and sword. His eyes flared with a burning wish to murder. This dickfaced Templar had wasted enough of their time. They could row that boat themselves.

Alec’s staff gleamed with magic. They were of a same mind.

The Templar took a tiny step back, hands going up. “I- I meant... For _talking_. So we could get to know each other, just that. I meant it. It gets lonely here.”

Funny how his pleading look was sent exactly in the direction of the woman he had just treated as some wooden statuette to be traded. As if Alec or Alistair owned her, and could just pass her on to him... For _talking_ …

Zevran knew exactly what he meant, and how much choice a woman would have in his hands.

And if he dared voice his revolting entitlement to strangers, Zevran shuddered to think what he did to powerless mages in his charge.

“I’m s-sorry,” Leliana stammered, but her hand stilled Zevran’s wrist. “I’m… a _poetess_! And I’m not interested in anything you have to offer.”

“I-- I’ve never met a poetess,” The dickfaced Templar stuttered as well. Zevran’s weapons might have lowered, but he still glowered. “The other men… They sometimes tell stories about them… when the Knight-Commander isn’t around, of course.” He wiped sweat off his forehead. “He doesn’t abide to that sort of talk.”

“Psh!” Leliana taunted. “The stories sheltered Templars tell will pale in comparison to mine. Would you like to hear my tales of debauchery and excess?” She had reined in the stammering, recovered from the shocking ‘proposition’, fear quickly gone from her voice. She now sounded confident and alluring, like Zevran would have expected from an Orlesian spy. She smiled wantonly, in control, mischief in her big blue eyes. “I’m sure we could talk on that long, dull boat ride across the lake, yes?”

“Er… Yes,” the Templar nodded, chirpy. “That sound good. Are we going now?” He had escaped death by a hair. Zevran hoped he knew.

The anger within didn’t recede, but Zevran sheathed his blades before boarding the boat.

There wasn’t enough room for everyone, and Alec ordered Sten to wait for them with Morrigan at the docks. Alistair, as dim-witted as he could be sometimes, was quick to plop down right next to the opportunistic Templar in the boat, under the pretense of helping with rowing. Their large armor left no more space for anyone on that bench, leaving the one across from it for the rest of them.

Alec took longer than any of them to embark. He put his staff down, and supported himself firmly on the edge of the boat before trembling legs finally moved and he slumped down on the seat. The collar of his shirt was soaked with sweat, and if his skin got any paler, he’d be transparent.

Alistair and the Templar rowed, and as promised Leliana delivered a very entertaining tale of an Orlesian noble who had two mistresses -- Who ended up murdering him when they discovered each other. Zevran missed bits and pieces of the story, watching the mage at his side grow even tenser with every minute that passed.

His knuckles were purple with how tightly he held onto the gunwale of the boat. He was spacing out, watching the wet planks beneath their feet.

“Alec?” Alistair asked. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” The mage grumbled.

“Seasick?”

“Fine, Alistair.” He spat, not looking up.

“But--”

“Maker’s fucking breath.” Alec looked up, glaring at the man. “Are you deaf? I’m fucking _fine.”_

There was a beat of awkward silence.

If there was a thing Zevran knew himself to be good at, it was providing much needed levity.

“Well, I have a joke for you, then,” he began, shifting slightly on the seat, arm brushing against Alec’s, honey eyes watching Alistair in front of him. “A man walks into a tavern and sees his friend sitting beside a twelve-inch palace, complete with marble archways and a tower with fancy scrollwork. He eyes the miniature and says to his friend, ‘ _That's amazing. How did you get that?’_ The friend then pulls out a pendant and tells him to rub it and make a wish. He rubs the pendant, and a Desire demon pops out and tells him that he can have one wish. So the man thinks and says, ‘ _I wish I had a thousand gold pieces_.’”

Zevran was careful to add proper pauses for a good delivery of the joke, though he could hardly contain a wish to burst in laughter. He reined it in. “The Desire demon says, ‘ _Go outside, and your wish will be granted_ .’ The man goes outside, but all he finds are a thousand golden colored fleeces, rolled up and piled in front of the tavern. He goes back in and tells his friend what happened, and his friend replies--” He knit his brows and tilted his head, acting the poor friend. “‘ _I know. Did you really think I wanted a twelve-inch palace?_ ’”

The dickfaced Templar cracked up immediately, and Leliana was quick to punch Zevran’s upper arm with a lovely, falsely reproaching utterance of his name. Alec, Zevran was pleased to notice, gave him a sideways glance and scoffed, shoulders dropping a bit.

Understanding finally dawned upon Alistair’s face, several beats later, and he cracked up in loud and contagious laughter. “He wanted a twelve inch phall--” Alistair cut himself off and blushed. Leliana giggled, and Zevran’s laughter bubbled up again.

Alec let out a soft chuckle.

“I have one, too,” Leliana announced, and the two of them exchanged jokes for the rest of the boat ride. It was an hour before they reached Kinloch Hold. The tower was even bigger from up close, with large imposing doors on the end of a very short walkway from the docks. There was safe shore around the stone structure, but it was narrow. Zevran could see a greenhouse to the left, but there wasn’t much outdoor space at all. With a well-locked cage like this, and Templars like the one who’d rowed them here watching over your every step, he could guess a mage’s life in this place wasn’t exactly a bed of roses.

Alec was the first to disembark. Zevran was sure it wasn’t out of eagerness to visit his old home again. He pulled a handkerchief from his pouch and wiped the sweat off his forehead, his legs and hands far steadier now that his feet were standing on hard soil rather than water.

While the Templar tied the boat to the docks, Zevran approached Alec. He offered a gentle touch, palm resting softly against the mage’s lower back. “Are you fearful of water, my friend?”

Alec puffed air out heavily and shied away from the touch. “The Veil is _wrong_ here,” he said, looking over his shoulder and gesturing for Leliana and and Alistair to hurry up. When he looked at Zevran again, his eyes were heavy with worry. “It’s all torn up. Something’s _really_ wrong.”

Alec’s large strides led them inside.

Several Templars crowded the entrance hall. Some were huddled up in a corner, either sleeping or wounded. Two sorted through a pile of crates, and a second pair was stationed in front of a large door at the end of the room. They all wore similar armor; not too different from that of Templars in Antiva. Plate adorned with the gold and red of the Chantry, the flaming sword on their chest. Some of them had removed pauldrons and greaves, and the tabards underneath looked dirty. Even those standing looked weary, heavy bags under their eyes and worry in their creased eyebrows. They whispered among each other, overlooked by a tall, grey-haired man who was probably their Commander. The man was old, but he still looked strong enough to take down several Crows on his own.

“Knight-Commander Greagoir,” Alec said.

“The doors are barred,” Alistair whispered next to him. “Are they keeping people out? Or in?”

“I don’t have time to entertain visit-- Oh.” The man noticed Alec, and his lips twisted into a disdainful grin. “Well look who’s here! A proper Grey Warden now, are we?” He clicked his tongue. “Warden Surana… Glad you’re not dead.”

“I’m sure you are.” Sarcasm laced Alec’s tone. “What’s happened here?

“We are dealing with a situation that does not concern the Grey Wardens.”

“You don’t decide what concerns the Grey Wardens, Knight-Commander,” Alec sneered at the man. “ _I_ do, as interim _Warden Commander_.” He crossed arms over his chest. “Now tell me what is happening in the tower.”

 _Warden Commander._ Funny title considering there were only two Wardens alive in Ferelden, one of which was Alec himself. But Zevran hadn’t heard the mage use the title before, and he could guess why he was waving it around now -- Standing tall in front of Templars who’d held so much power over him all his life.

It was a statement. And it worked.

“Ugh,” Greagoir grunted in disgust. “I shall speak plainly: The tower is no longer under our control. Abominations and demons stalk the halls…” He massaged his own temples, shaking his head. “We were too complacent. First Jowan. Now this!” He growled at Alec, an accusing finger pointed at his chest. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your role in Jowan’s escape. Yours and Amell’s. Where is she now?”

“None of _your_ concern,” Alec retorted. “If there are abominations in the Tower, why aren’t all of you in there fighting them? As you’re supposed to.”

“My men did what they could, but it wasn’t enough. They took us by surprise. We were prepared for one or two abominations-- Not the horde that fell upon us.”

Alec flailed. “So you’re sitting around? While the doors are locked, keeping every mage inside?”

“And my templars also. I would destroy the tower, raze it to the ground, but I cannot risk more of my men. The abominations must be contained at all costs. The doors will remain shut and they will protect us for now.”

It was so clear in the Commander’s tone that he did not give a fig about the mages.

Alec’s tone was livid. “There are children in there! You can’t just leave them to be slaughtered by demons!”

“Alec,” Alistair cooed softly. “The mages are probably already dead. Any abomination in there must be dealt with no matter what.”

The mage turned around in a flash, glaring daggers at his fellow Warden. “You have no fucking clue what it takes to survive in this tower, Alistair.” He turned his furious gaze back to Greagoir. “We learn to pull through every day. I _know_ that there must be survivors.”

“No.” The Templar shook his head. “It’s been over a week now. If any are still alive, the Maker himself has shielded them. No one could have survived those monstrous creatures this long. It is too painful to hope for survivors and find… Nothing. It is too late now.” His gaze dropped to the floor. “I have sent to Denerim for the Right of Annulment. They should be here at any time.”

“The Right of Annulment?” Alec roared. “You are a _coward_ , Greagoir!” The mage dew his staff. All the Templars around them stiffened and unsheathed their swords, the clanking iron resonating in the desolate stone walls.  Zevran drew his daggers as well, and Leliana tightened her grip on her bow. Alec’s voice echoed. “You shut them in! You sealed their death when you should have been protecting the fucking tower! An _incompetent coward_ , is what you are!”

“And what was I to do, since you’re such an expert in all things Templar?” The human man yelled back, gesturing with unarmed hands. He was the only one who hadn’t drawn weapons. “Leave the doors open as the abominations poured out? I am a Templar, and I am standing by my vows! It is the innocent folk of Ferelden who matter. I would lay down my life, and the life of _any mage_ , to protect them. No abomination must cross this threshold.”

“He… He’s right, Alec.” Alistair’s voice shook. “All the Circles have doors like these, to prevent abominations from…. Getting loose.”

“Keep your _Templar_ opinions to yourself, Alistair.” The mage spat, a hand raised up as if gestures were needed when his words were already so clear. And cutting. Alistair’s face turned red -- Zevran wasn’t sure if out of embarrassment or anger. Alec didn’t even turn around to look at him. “The only way you’re annulling this Circle is over my dead body, Greagoir. Open those doors. I’m going in.”

“You think you’re something now that you’re a Warden, Surana,” Greagoir hissed, “but I assure you. An abomination is a force to be reckoned with. And you’ll face more than one.”

“Then watch me fare better than all your spineless, obnoxious Templars together.”

A Templar next to Greagoir took a step forward, sword tight in his grip, but Greagoir halted him with a gesture. “That arrogance hangs about you like a foul cloud, doesn’t it? You’ve always thought you could get away with anything because you had Irving’s protection. He thought your talent excused your behavior. He was wrong. We shouldn’t have been complacent with your transgressions growing up.”

“See if I give a nug’s ass about your opinion, Greagoir,” The mage said, turning around to face the pile of crates some of the Templars were tending to. They were food supplies. “Only thing I care about right now is that you’ll give me some of those rations, and open the doors so I can do _your_ job for you.”

“You want to rush into your own death, be my guest. A word of caution, though… once you cross that threshold, there is no turning back. The doors will remain barred. I will open them for no one until I have proof it is safe, and I will only believe it is safe if the First Enchanter himself stands before me and tells me it is so. If Irving has fallen, then the Circle is lost… And must be destroyed. If permission to proceed with the Right of Annulment gets here before you are out, then we shall go in and purge the tower... And _you_ with it.”

If Zevran were to guess, the Knight-Commander looked forward to seeing Alec fail.

The mage scoffed. “Oh. You can fucking _try_.”

Zevran snorted. The Warden’s confidence was truly something else. He snarled at the Knight-Commander without fearing consequences, and recklessly threw himself into the sort of danger over a dozen Templars had ran from. It was stupid, but admirable.

And so absolutely _hot_.

It was probably the worst time ever to get turned on by Alec, but there was something about his determined strides that was painfully arousing. He stood upright, holding his staff and glaring viciously and fearlessly at the armed Templars around them. A heroic aura about him that made him look that much more unbeatable. So fierce.

Zevran bit his bottom lip. How fierce was he in the bedroom?

“Give him what he wants and let him inside.” Greagoir finally agreed.

Zevran had to force down that cloud of arousal to realize just what kind of insane quest they were heading into. It was all fine and dandy when Alec was hot in his boastful confidence. Not so much when the likeness of dying by abominations, demons or templars’ swords lurked in the corner. Alec’s survival instinct was fucking broken.

“Mmm.” He approached the mage. “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘ _let sleeping abominations lie?_ ’ Now would be the time to consider it...”

“You may stay if you're scared,” Alec said, squatting next to the crates and putting cheese and fruits inside his bag. “But no one is going to persuade me not to try.”

“Scared?” Zevran laughed boastfully. “Preposterous. Antivans face death undaunted.”

“Then what are a few abominations?” Alec’s chuckle was strained. “It is up to you, Zevran.”

“I’m coming,” Leliana announced, joining him in collecting supplies. “What the Templars have done, locking them inside to die… It’s too cruel. I would not subject even an animal to such a terrible fate. Magic is a gift the Maker gave his children -- And they deserve to be protected too.”

Alec handed her a pair of apples. “Thank you, Leliana.”

“Why the food, if I may ask?” Zevran wondered. “We are well supplied. And we had plenty of pie on the road.”

“One of the servants we found in the castle in Redcliffe died of hunger.” Alec pointed out. “If the mages have been locked for over a week, who’s to say they’ve had access to the kitchen? I just think it’s good to have food and water to give.”

“Do… Do you r-really think anyone in there is still alive?” Alistair stuttered.

Alec closed his bag and threw it over his shoulder, standing up and staring Alistair in the eye. “I _know_ they are. I have mentors and friends in there, Alistair. There are children -- And they’re not blood mages or abominations. What kind of Warden would I be if I turned my back on them?”

They held each other’s gaze, a mute quarrel between green and brown. “You’re right.” Alistair agreed, sheepishly shying his gaze away from Alec’s. “Duncan wouldn't let innocents die either.”

 _Innocence_ was a curious concept, in Zevran’s opinion. But innocent or not, the mages inside the tower had never been treated like real people. Their lives were worthless, and those who owned them turned their backs on them at the first little inconvenience.

Fuck. If he were smarter, Zevran would turn his back, too. Self-preservation first.

But he didn’t. Alec’s determination made him _believe_ they could save the mages.

“You will need someone to watch your back, yes?” Zevran winked lecherously at Alec. “Hopefully it won’t be the last time I get to stare luridly at your backside.”

“Are you all coming, then?” Alec knitted his brows, looking surprised that they were all ready to go. This time he hadn’t ordered anyone to follow. “You heard what lurks inside, didn’t you?”

“We might all die gruesomely, I believe. But that has been a given since I joined your beautiful party.” Zevran spun dagger and sword in deft hands. “Lead the way, Commander.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bam, boom, baby! The Circle!  
> I hope you guys like it ! <3 Waggle your ears if yes! 
> 
> References:
> 
> Zevran's twelve inch palace joke is an adaptation of this [twelve inch pianist](http://jokes.cc.com/funny-walks-into-a-bar/tfj9vp/little-pianist) joke. Huge thanks to [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark) and [DAfan7711](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711) who helped me adapt it. 8D
> 
> Also. I slammed my head on the wall several times, hating the fact Morrigan wasn't going to the Circle with them, because boy, [is her reaction precious when Carroll tries to ask the Warden to leave her with him!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KPwkWvyr2uw) Just go watch that jewel!


	12. Broken Circle 1. Wynne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark) and [DAfan7711](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711) for beta-reading this chapter! <3  
> (Have I told the rest of you guys to go read their stuff yet? go, go -nudges you- :3)

**TWELVE  
** Broken Circle 1. Wynne

 

“Maker -- It stinks!” Alistair wrinkled his nose.

First thing that greeted them upon crossing through the doors into the Circle Tower was the decaying corpse of what might have been a woman. A mage. Unrecognizable.

Alec squatted beside the decomposing body, making a face at the smell, gloved hands fumbling through her pockets until he pulled something out. A little notebook. “Senior Enchanter Leorah,” he said, putting the trinket away in his own pouch. “She was so nice.”

“Now she is fetid.” Zevran said.

Alec ignored him, casting a spell to turn the worm-infested body into an ice cube. 

“You do not intend to assess every single putrid body, do you, my friend?” If what the Templars had said was true, they were likely to find far more of these than walking, breathing, living mages. “Every survivor will be a corpse by the time we get to them, if we waste time with the dead.” 

The mage stood up, pursing his lips as he gave that one corpse one last look. “You’re right,” he agreed, leading the way through a door to their right, entering a wide bedroom which had been turned upside down as if a hurricane had struck it. Bedsheets, clothes, books, oil lamps, staves, sheets of paper and bits of wood -- and Maker knew what else -- littered the floor. 

“We still need to check every room. Children might be hiding, or unconscious,” Alec insisted. Casting a spell on himself, he amplified his voice. “Hello? Anyone out there? We’re here to help.”

No one answered but his own echo, so he opened armoire doors and checked under the beds.

There were over forty bunks in this room alone, but it wasn’t too bad. It was better than the leather-smelling apartment Zevran had shared for years with other Crow recruits. The mages at least had beds, as opposed to molded bedrolls. They had armoires to store their clothing, and footlockers for their personal belongings. Some of them even adorned their little corner of the room -- colored wood, little statuettes, framed paintings -- as if to reflect their identities. 

Crows were only allowed to explore the sides of their own identities that made killing easier.

Rinna had been good with logic, puzzles and strategy. She considered every detail and conceived an alternative route for every outcome they might face, even before they began pursuit. Eoman let her hone that skill because he profited from it. 

He had profited from the three of them together. Rinna held the reins, and he and Taliesen executed her designs. 

Taliesen was all brute force and chauvinism. He was easy to anger, and so willing to solve everything with his fists. Eoman praised him for it, inflated his ego, made him believe he was exactly what true masculinity was meant to be like. Strength of muscles. 

And then there was him… The charmer, the lover. Sometimes the clown -- Whatever it took to get someone to lower their defenses. If Zevran didn’t doubt for a minute he was blessed by the Maker with a face and a body that could easily incite envy and desire in women and men both, it was because Eoman had made sure he believed that much about himself. He wasn’t made for planning and leading like Rinna, or mindless brawls like Taliesen. He was groomed for charming, entertaining, fooling, distracting and seducing his marks. 

In the end, they were all good for one thing.

What would they have been, if they could have explored more about themselves?

Taliesen used to grow the plants for their poisons. He was gentler with the weeds and buds than with people. Rinna liked building things. Little wooden puzzles that she always threw away in frustration. She never had the courage to let anyone play with them, and Zevran had never told her he used to pick them up from the trash and try anyway. He’d never managed to solve a single one of them. 

“Zev?” Alec called him. 

Zevran shook his head, coming back from his reverie, forcing his gaze away from a footlocker that had been entirely covered in ink art. He pushed away the wish to study the swirling designs and followed the party out of the bedroom.

Out in the circular corridor once more, they pushed through tall doors, finding themselves in a large, unfurnished hall -- And not alone.

Zevran noticed the kids first. A dozen children anywhere from five to fifteen years old sitting or sleeping on the hard floor, using rags and clothes as pillows or covers. A pair of teenagers and a handful of adults stood about -- Some watching the kids, and some fighting a demonic foe that came from a shiny, magical barrier.

A white-haired mage in red robes swirled her staff in the air, and the flaming demon shrieked loudly in an invisible, magical prison. The old mage flicked her hand, and the creature crumbled into dust, pulverized. She turned around to face the intruders, ready to parry with them as she did the demon. 

Her eyebrows went up in surprise when she saw them.

“Alec? You’ve returned to the tower?” 

“Alec!” A beautiful, red-haired young mage that stood beside the old woman gasped, widened eyes watching the Warden, hands covering her mouth. “We thought you were dead!”

“Andraste’s tits, Cherry!” Alec took large steps towards the redheaded human woman, arms desperately snaking around her shoulders while she wrapped hers around his waist. They held each other tight.

“Maker’s breath.” Alistair gawked at how many children there were. Alive -- Against Greagoir’s assessment. “There are so many survivors.”

“This must be hard,” Leliana whispered. She watched the desolate children with tearful eyes. “Coming back home to this.”

“Why did the Templars let you through?” The old lady asked the Warden. “Are you here to warn us?”

Alec and his ginger friend pulled apart, though his hand remained on her shoulder even as he addressed the elder. “Wynne. Greagoir sent for the Right of Annulment. It hasn’t arrived yet, but he thinks Kinloch is beyond saving. And he’s too much of a coward to even try.”

“They abandoned us to our fate.” She sighed. One of the youngest children started crying in the corner of the room, briefly stealing away her attention. “But even trapped as we are, we have survived. If they invoke the Right, however, we won’t be able to stand against them.”

“We must clear the tower,” Alec said. “I told him I would do it.”

The woman, Wynne, stared long and hard at the Warden, as if deciding if he was right for the task. There was concern in her eyes. It looked like doubt. 

“Fear not, my good lady,” Zevran assured her. “Our dear Warden here is very good at fending off attackers. Speaking from experience here.” 

Alec scoffed, his lips twitching upwards. Zevran winked at him when their eyes met. 

“We are here to try to make the Circle safe again,” Alistair promised, palm resting on the hilt of his sword.

“These are Zevran, Alistair and Leliana.” Alec gestured to each one of them. “They’re not all Wardens, but we’ve faced undead in Redcliffe... And more Darkspawn than you can count.” His gaze shifted between the old lady and his redheaded friend. “We will clear the tower before the Right of Annulment gets here, Wynne.”

“I bet you’re dying to save the day,” said a young mage standing nearby. A pale-faced human with rich brown eyes. He rested a hand on his hip, scowling at Alec. “But the situation here is much worse than you think, and you’re not Garahel, candlestick. As much as you wish you were.”

“At least I’m actually good at combat magic, Flora. More than can be said about you.”

“It’s Finn,” the brown-eyed boy snarled. “And you’re not half as good as you advertise.” 

“Flora.” Alec taunted. “Have you tried asking the demons to back off in different languages? Did Ancient Tevene work?”

“Oh for the Maker’s sake,” Wynne said, exasperated. “Now is not the time for such childish displays.” She gave both boys the sort of stern gaze Zevran figured a mother would to scold squabbling sons. 

They both went quiet, even if their nostrils still flared.

Zevran chuckled, remembering the old Rivaini whore who liked reading their future in the cards, and who could silence the loudest of children and other whores alike with a deadly glare alone.

Alec cleared his throat. “Is Irving alive?”

“You know that if anyone could survive this it is Irving. He told me to look after the children.” Her gaze drifted to the young mages packed up in the corner, one of which had been sobbing since they had entered the hall. “It has been difficult... Maintaining this barrier, and rationing what little we managed to gather. I am proud of us for surviving this long.”

“Oh,” Alec said, reaching for his bag and pulling out the supplies he’d collected from the crates outside. “I brought food.” He walked over to the mage who was in charge of the children -- A tall human with a heinous goatee. “Here, Kinnon.”

“I-I’m hungry,” a young girl whimpered, running to the human mage and wrapping arms around his legs. 

“Please, Mand. We may have to ration these.” Kinnon patted the little girl’s head. She looked up at him with big, pleading eyes, and he couldn’t deny her. He placed a fruit in her tiny, trembling palm. “Here, then.” 

Leliana had pulled out her share of supplies and handed what she could to the starving mages.

The ginger-haired woman Alec had called Cherry was back at his side. “Where’s Sunshine?”

“They…” Alec’s voice faltered. He gulped. “Didn’t survive Ostagar.”

Cherry laced her arm with the Warden’s, catching his hand and squeezing it. He accepted the gesture with ease, familiarity in the way his body leaned into the touch.

“It wasn’t how it was meant to go, Petra,” he said, a soft whisper… Almost an apology. 

The wonders of this place. It was like watching an entirely different facet of the Warden. A boy who sweat bullets on a harmless boat ride, bickered like a child trying to prove himself, and fell into hugs and squeezed hands for comfort.

Zevran’s stomach sunk with envy. He had no such comfort within the Crows. 

Not even in Taliesen. Least of all in Taliesen.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Kinnon said with a pat to Alec’s shoulder. “Wynne told us about Loghain. I’d never have imagined him a traitor… But so many died in Ostagar because of his betrayal. If only Uldred had died there too.”

Alec frowned. “Why?”

“Uldred started this.” Wynne informed him, storing an apple and a package of nuts in her pouch and pulling gloves up her hands. “I can explain later. We should make haste, or more might perish.”

“We should all perish,” wept a girl with khol stains on her cheeks. “Death is salvation. This is our punishment for being mages.” She looked barely an adult, sitting against a wall, arms around her own middle, watching them with hopeless eyes. “That’s why the Templars have to… do away with us.”

“No, don’t say that. It’s not true.” Leliana’s brows went upwards, blue eyes full of pity for the wrecked girl. “You deserve to live, just like everyone else.”

“We should let the Templars come. Only then can we be cleaned of our sins.”  

Her voice carried an anguish that clung to the skin, and tasted sour on the tongue. 

Zevran knew what it was like to hope for death to come quickly. 

Sometimes he raged against fate, against the whore who’d put him in the world only to have no choice but stain his hands in red. Kill, or be killed. 

Caught in that crossfire, he’d learned to relish the power and pleasure that came with it. It was the only power, and only pleasure, he’d ever have. He embraced the wickedness, but it wasn’t his fault he had been put in the hands of the wicked.

He did not choose the deaths, just like the blade in his hand didn’t choose to be used. It was sharpened for a purpose, and it served it well. 

Deep within, he knew that he was no guiltier than the clients who paid, or the masters who took the payment. But they hadn’t looked their victims in the eye.

They didn’t see Justice fade from her blue eyes when silence came.

Zevran told himself he’d had no choice. But it wasn’t true. 

A drop of poison. Or an executioner. Only his executioner had spared him.

_ You deserve to live, just like everyone else. _ Leliana’s voice echoed inside his bones.

Sweet Leliana. But some people deserved to die. 

“Who’s alive?” Alec asked his redheaded friend. “Laura? Eadric?”

“Laura was cornered. One moment she was fighting the charmed Templars, but the next she… There was this monstrous abomination.” Cherry looked down, swallowing thickly, letting silence fall for a moment. Her head shook. “I didn’t see Eadric anywhere, Carrot.”

“We do not have time to spare,” Wynne said, a hand on Alec’s shoulder urging him to hurry up. “Together we can lead the survivors out. I’ll dispel the barrier, and Petra can make a new one. Finn and Kinnon will stay with the children.”

Making haste, they spilled out into a library as large as Zevran had pictured -- Influenced both by that which he’d seen in the Circle in Antiva, and by Alec’s endless mentions of books. 

From behind the tall shelves came a handful of deformed creatures, wearing on their horrid faces the flesh of what might have been mages. They glided rather than walked, and cast magic like their hosts once had. 

Alec and Wynne cast barriers upon them. 

“Bows,” the Warden ordered. Leliana had already nocked an arrow. Zevran followed suit, but both their arrows skewed ever so slightly when they broke through the magical barrier that protected them. Hers landed the target still, and his missed it by an inch. They shot a second round of arrows, and as the creatures approached, Alistair rose his shield high and lunged forward with a deafening battlecry that staggered one of the abominations.

Zevran shot quickly, not particularly worried where his arrows landed, so long as they hit the target. The poison they were coated with acted fast, paralyzing the muscles around the pierced flesh, but the abomination had more limbs to count on. The wounds did give Alistair an opportunity to lower his shield and slash one of the thing’s arms, but it kept on fighting, dark ichor gushing out onto the warrior. Leliana shot an arrow right in its eye, and Alistair sliced it down. One gone. Three more to go.

They didn’t fall easily. Even when Alec had drained their mana, or they’d run out of magic, the creatures didn’t cease offense. Zevran leaped onto an abomination’s back, stabbing it in the neck. Blood spurted out plenty, and still the creature didn’t fall. It shrieked in pain, catching Zevran in its bizarrely big hands and hurling him across the room. 

His back collided against a bookshelf, stealing air right out of his lungs. He fell on top of the decomposing corpse of a Templar.

Zevran had to catch his breath. He had lost his grip on his weapons when he was thrown, so he stole the dead Templar’s sword as he got back on his feet, taking in sharp, deep breaths, ignoring the keen pain on his back. Fetching the spare dagger from the sheath around his waist, he watched an abomination step on a paralysis glyph. Leliana slid forward, stabbing it five times before it fell.

And if abominations weren’t enough -- Before they were even done with all of them, Zevran saw a flaming demon surge up from the very floor. The temperature around them dropped as Alec swirled his staff, pulling ice out of thin air and turning the fire-breathing creature into a winter sculpture. 

Zevran leaped forward, whacking the pommel of his sword onto the ice and shattering the thing into pieces. He lifted his eyes to the sight of a fast-approaching abomination gliding towards him. A surge of energy tingled on his fingertips, heart picking up pace, adrenaline and magic rushing in his veins. 

After two weeks in the Warden’s company, the sudden spell boosts didn’t surprise him anymore. 

Zevran ran toward the creature, his steps twice as fast with the spell, and when the abomination was about to lift its hands to grab him, he turned on the balls of his feet, dodging sideways, leaving the creature to search for its prey like a puppy chasing after its own tail.

Before it could find him, he leaped closer, sinking a dagger into the creature’s flank. He raised his sword and cut its head off. Zevran almost fell forward, off-balance, but he caught himself quickly, a glance to the left when the last of the foes crumbled under Alistair’s steel.

Four more were found in the next section of the library. Alec put a barrier on Alistair and asked the human Warden to taunt the creatures and run. The abominations followed, and when they stood right in front of the tallest shelves, the elf used magic to topple them over, trapping the creatures under the hard shelves and the piles of books. They climbed up the fallen furniture and stabbed the monsters through the wood, though one managed to get away and summoned Wraiths from the Fade. 

For each enemy they killed, three more came. Fighting went on and on until all of their breaths were ragged.

When finally they had sent all the creatures into the void, Alistair had poison-infected eyes. Leliana’s clothes were torn on her back, a barely healed slash no longer bleeding thanks to Wynne’s healing magic. Zevran had an aching back, a split temple, bruises all over his stomach and throbbing arms. He’d counted thirteen kills.

“How many for you, my friend?” He asked the Warden, cleaning his blades on a piece of cloth before sheathing them. His arms dropped to the side, heavy as lead.

“Wasn’t counting,” Alec said.

Zevran uncorked a small vial of healing potion and sipped it to ease his aches, watching as the Warden checked behind and under shelves for survivors, but all he encountered were corpses. Dozens in this library alone, of mages and Templars alike. Some so badly charred it was impossible to tell which they might have been.

It could be their own fate before this quest was done. Alistair had escaped blindness by a hair, it seemed. His face was still reddened even after Wynne had patched him up, but he promised he could see just fine. 

They had to keep moving.

They took the stairs to the second floor. Zevran had his blades drawn and ready, but before any foe, they encountered a man sorting through crates, going about business as if nothing was out of place besides the vials he was rearranging.

Owain, his name was. A  monotone-sounding man with several screws loose, if he thought this was the right time to manage a stockroom. Then again, judging by the way he spoke, there was definitely something… different, about him.

Zevran had heard of mages being severed from the Fade before, and now that he thought about it, he was sure he’d once talked to one of those at a magical artifacts shop in Antiva City, many years earlier. He hadn’t know then that she was a tranquil. 

“Do they lose all emotion? Everything?” Zevran asked once they moved on, after Wynne had convinced Owain to go back and join the rest of the survivors. The matters they’d discussed (something about another mage? And a litany?) had completely escaped his notice, as he had been far too distracted studying the tranquil. “Do they lose even… Say, the urges?”

“What an inappropriate question to ask,” Wynne huffed. “Would you like people wondering about your private life? As if you were some exotic animal?”

“I’ve no qualms speaking of my private life, my dear woman, if you wish to hear,” he snickered at the old lady. Alistair slapped his own face. “I must inform you, however, that if you want all the sordid details, we might be here a while… I could start with my latest adventure with a prostitute in Rivain who could--”

“I do not wish to hear about your private life!” Wynne interrupted him. 

Alec snorted by his side, and he felt tempted to keep going just to entertain the Warden. He was always the one to provide Rinna and Taliesen with some laughter during their missions. 

“You did bring  _ my _ private life into question, my dear woman.”

Wynne groaned. “My point is that private lives are exactly that. Private. It is very disrespectful of you to ask about Owain’s.”

“A-ha! So he does have urges!” Zevran concluded with triumphant laughter, enjoying the crease between Wynne’s brows.

The Warden chuckled again. “If he does, he probably keeps his dalliances better hidden than the rest of us,” he said as they took a turn at a corridor that led to more quarters. 

Unlike the bunk beds downstairs, these rooms awarded occupants some privacy. They were spacious enough, and each had its own privacy screen. “Alistair, go with Wynne to check the rooms to the left. Zevran, Leliana and I will cover this side.” Once they had split, Alec was quick to return to his train of thought. 

Zevran suspected he’d only even separated them so Wynne wouldn’t censor the conversation. 

“You know,” the Warden said, "I’ve thought about that before. I’d say sex is probably the same for the tranquil. They still feel physical pain, for instance. Food still tastes good... It’s emotions they don’t have. No fear, no love... No passion, I guess.” He looked inside armoires and under beds -- Or what was left of the furniture -- as he spoke. “I think many don’t ever desire it.”

“No desire? None at all?” Zevran exaggerated his surprise. “I shudder just to think!”

“There are more things in life than carnal desires.” Leliana pointed out. “Many people who do feel emotions don’t ever desire it either. I do not think that it makes their lives less fulfilled… It is not experiencing love that must be sad.” 

Zevran snickered. “Well now, my dear woman… Many never experience love either.” 

Some weren’t meant to. Some just weren’t worth it.

Alec shrugged. “The tranquil don’t just forget their lives… Someone who really liked sex before might still want it for the sake of it. And if they loved before, they’d remember it, I think. I’m not sure... I’ve only ever really talked with one of the tranquil here in the Circle. She didn’t ask for it. For Tranquility, I mean.” 

They had finished checking a row of rooms and moved on to the next corridor.

“What must a mage do, to deserve such cruel punishment?” Leliana wondered. 

“That depends,” Alec had begun to answer, but went gravely silent all of a sudden, narrowing his eyes and concentrating on something. His long ears twitched ever so slightly. Zevran took a quiet step forward, the faint buzz of voices landing in his own ears. 

The owners of the voices were arguing. 

“Three or four mages a room over,” the Warden whispered. “Lower your weapons.” 

Zevran and Leliana followed Alec into the other room. Despite the sheathed blades, the mages still greeted them with a blast of magic. It dissipated against the Warden’s barrier. 

“We’re not Templars!” Alec shouted, hands in the air, showing them his staff. “Do you remember me, Tina? I studied herbalism with you.”

“Rion!” A blond mage told the ones who were hiding in the room. “It’s that ginger elf -- Surana.”

“The one who became a Warden?” Another mage came from behind the furniture, giving them a once-over. He was a dark haired man around his thirties, and the way he held his own body was telling. He was tired, and defensive, gripping his staff tightly and glaring at Alec. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping,” Alec said, approaching them carefully. There was definitely something odd about this group of mages. They were scared, but not like the rest of the survivors. “Your name’s Rion, innit? We never spoke, but you tutored my friend Skyler for a while... I’m here to clear the tower of the abominations and demons, so Greagoir won’t annul the Circle.”

“Where is Uldred?” asked the man. The gemstone on his staff gleamed with channeled magic, and Zevran’s own hands landed on the hilts of his dagger and sword.

“He’s not coming for us,” The woman, Tina, whimpered. “We should surrender, Rion.” 

She tried reaching for his arm, but Rion shoved her away. She fell on the floor, and the man turned to them with murder in his eyes. “No! He was Irving’s pupil! They’ll kill us all!” He lifted his staff up in the air and ripped the Veil open, lightning bolts showering down on their heads, not burning them alive only because Alec had conjured another barrier.

A mage next to the leader cast a paralysis glyph on the floor beneath Zevran. He dodged it, pulling out the last of his throwing blades and aiming carefully. The first shot slashed the enemy's face, but the second landed right in his eye, sinking into his skull. The man dropped dead with a thud, and Zevran lifted his gaze to the small horde of wraiths Rion had allowed through the Veil. 

Too close for arrows, Zevran pulled out his blades and some poisonous dust from his pouch. He threw it on the creatures’ faces, leaving them confused long enough to flank them, stabbing their odd jelly insides until they turned into dust. Caught between the two wraiths, he didn’t have a chance to dodge a mage’s stone fist that sent him flying halfway through the room. His back hit a wall for the second time that day, and his ears rang, deafening all the shouting and clanking of iron and shattering of ice for a moment. 

He got back on his feet and charged towards the mage who’d started the fray.

Still dizzy, he missed the moment Rion cast a paralysis glyph under his feet. 

His whole body froze, and the mage pulled a pocket knife from his robes, flinging it at him.

It slashed through the fabric of Zevran’s leather jerkin and cut the flesh on his arm. It was such a small laceration it would have gone unnoticed, the pain irrelevant in the heat of battle.... 

Except that in the corner of his eye, Zevran noticed his blood flowing off his vein and into the air, sucked by Rion’s staff like Jowan’s had done to Anora in Redcliffe. 

Blood magic.

Time stopped, the seconds dragging as he watched, immobile, as his blood was taken from him. As suddenly as the paralysis spell had settled, it wore off, and by instinct Zevran pressed his gloved hand against the cut. But it did nothing to stop the wound from bleeding, red ichor flowing between his fingers faster than water ran down a stream. Covering the cut was useless. The only way out was stopping the mage’s spell. So he charged, daggers in hand, flinging them at the man with no coordination whatsoever. The room was turning right under his eyes, his muscles weakened, dizziness fogging his thoughts. 

His heart raced, drumming inside his chest. His breathing got heavy. Even holding the daggers was too much the more blood he lost.

Honey eyes turned from the mage that pulled at his blood, searching for a glimpse of hope. A few steps ahead Leliana parried with another mage, her clothes burning and forcing her to run and roll on the floor to put the fire out. Even if he screamed for help, it would be too late.

Too late was supposed to be good, wasn’t it? Some people deserved to die.

Zevran just didn’t want to. Not right now. The children in that hall needed to stand a chance. Who else would fight for the mages? They were doing something worth doing… If Leliana would just turn her head...

He couldn’t make words come out. He breathed in, breathed out, and gripped his dagger again.

_ One last attempt at the mage _ , Zevran told himself. But his heartbeat was deafening, and behind closed eyelids he saw Rinna’s open throat. Death carried the ironed scent of blood. The crimson adorned the streets of a back alley in Antiva City. His grip loosened, and the steel of the blades clinked on Kinloch Hold’s stone floor. It echoed.

“Zev!” Alec’s voice broke the ringing of metal.

Zevran’s feet left the ground. His veins pulsed, head spinning, but he didn’t want to give up fighting. Breathing heavily, he forced his eyes open, watching himself float, weightless, an inch above the floor. Colorful, flashy bolts of magic were cast back and forth between the mages, staves spinning in both their hands. Too fast. Too blurred. Too loud. Too much.

Leliana nocked an arrow. She was singing.

And then there was silence.

_ Silence turned into the soft buzzing of conversation late at night by the coast, waves crashing against the rocks on the shore.  _

_ Zevran looked down at his bare feet, the sand soft between his toes.  _

_ Rinna snorted. “You puked!” _

_ “He almost puked,” Taliesen corrected her. “Granted, the fifth stage is tough to watch.” _

_ “And why are we still talking about Lanthrax? When the warm ocean is right in front of us? I do think we only have a few hours left, so...” _

_ “The last one in the water has to make the next dose of Lanthrax!” Rinna shouted, her shirt already discarded on the warm sand. _

_ While Taliesen fumbled with the laces of his breeches, Zevran quickly rid himself of clothing, sprinting through the beach to catch up with Rinna and pulling at her hair to hold her back.  _

_ She turned around, jumping on him and landing them both on the ground. She slapped his face, laughter in her voice. “Zevran!”  _

“Zevran!” 

He rolled his eyelids open, the tight grip of a warm hand making him look up. His heart raced.

Orchard eyes stared back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After two months! A wild chapter finally appears! =D (on the bright side, 13 is also written and will be posted soon! woot woot! waggle your tail if you like it!) Let me know what you guys think! <3
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> > Zev’s and Leli’s archery styles are shamelessly inspired by [MadamSnark's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark) **amazeballs fic[To Rescue Her](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10039913)** !  
>  > I’ve been thinking a lot more about the tranquils’ condition thanks to conversations with Rosehip, and some of the banter in this chapter (some of which blatantly ableist towards them D:! Bc these characters can be stupid sometimes) were inspired by that.  
>    
> ALSO. ALSO. I GOT ART!!!! OMMaker! -squealing- LOOOK!  
> [Alec](http://raymurata.tumblr.com/post/166729387690/zippyzephy-drew-me-this-amazing-art-of-alec-3) by [Zippuzzle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zippuzzle/pseuds/zippuzzle)!! <3  
> [Raven Tabris and Alec](http://raymurata.tumblr.com/post/166409844105/smolhufflepuffkitten-i-finished-your-present) by [fanboy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanboy/pseuds/Fanboy)!! <3  
> I love you two! T_T


	13. Broken Circle 2. Eadric Hart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark) and [DAfan7711](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711) for beta-reading this chapter! <3  
> 

**THIRTEEN  
** Broken Circle 2. Eadric Hart

 

“Oh… Maker… I rather thought I would wake up dead once more,” Zevran grumbled, the weight of his body held up by Alec’s arms around his waist even though his own feet were on the floor. He tried to stand up without support.

“Wait. Don’t,” Alec said, a palm on his cheek bringing his face to rest upon a bony shoulder. “You lost too much blood.”

“How long... was I...?” He tried asking, forgetting the word for _svenire_.

“You were out? Minutes? Leliana killed Rion. I just lifted my Force Field.”

“Your what?” Zevran shook his head, frowning against the mage’s collarbone. Alec didn’t smell clean anymore. He smelled like someone who’d been marching for a whole day and fighting for Maker knew how long. Like rancid sweat, and blood, and dirt.

“A spell. Keeps you in-between here and the Fade. It blocked the blood-sucking spell Rion cast on you, but left you unable to interact with the world. It worked.”

“So that caused me to... faint, yes?” _Faint._ Yes. That was the word. Perhaps he should have offered words for gratitude, but what came instead was a flirty smile and cheap flattery. It found his lips far more easily… Especially when he happened to be in the Warden’s arms. “Or maybe the sight of you, my handsome Warden. Your beauty must have _fainted me,_ ”

“Or maybe,” Alec started with a chuckle, “you lost too much blood to think straight. You should sit.” It was more an order than a suggestion. Gracelessly, the scrawny mage helped him down on the cold floor, making him rest his back against a stone wall.

“Did it feel like you were out longer?” Alec asked, kneeling in front of him. “You might have wandered into a demon’s realm. The Fade is loaded here. Tonight more than usual... thanks to some people.” He looked over his shoulder, and Zevran followed his gaze.

Tina, the blonde woman who’d recognized the Warden, was kneeling quietly in front of Leliana. The rogue had an arrow nocked, trained on the woman’s head. Tina stared at Alec, her eyebrows curved up and her hands clasped together, pleading. “I swear we didn’t know it was going to end up like this. We just wanted a chance to rule ourselves! Uldred said Loghain would support us! You were in a Libertarian meeting once. I remember it. You wanted freedom too. We thought… someone always has to force a change! Take the first step.”

“And a major fuck up was your first step.” Alec shook his head. “Let me make sure no one else dies because of you, Tina, then we’ll talk.” he shrugged, turning back to Zevran. He pulled a vial from his pouch, uncorked it and touched it to bronzed lips. “Drink.”

Zevran didn’t even bother suspecting the Warden’s intentions. He parted his mouth open and swallowed down the contents of the potion, warmth returning to the tips of his fingers almost immediately. He breathed in slowly, flexing his hands open and shut just to prove to himself he could still command movements from his own body. He lifted his hand and took the empty vial from a freckled hand. Alec pressed that palm to his forehead, then cupped his cheek, warm like fire. “You were cold like a corpse. Better now. Let the potion work, don’t move too much.”

Zevran missed the heat of that pale hand as soon as it was gone.

Standing up, the Warden dusted off his pants and turned around, taking a few steps towards the blood mage, standing next to Leliana. “Is your arm alright?”

“I can handle it.” Leliana said. “She looks genuinely sorry, Alec.”

“I am. We didn’t know Uldred would go mad!” The woman said. “We have been trapped here for days, wishing it could have gone differently.”

“Uldred’s plan was daft. Loghain is a traitor.”

“He is the Hero of River Dane! How were we to know?!” The woman lowered her gaze. “Besides. It was not like we were spoiled for choice.”

“I’m not going to give you one either,” the Warden said. “Stand up. Get your staff. You’re helping me clear the tower whether you want to or not.”

“Are you... serious?” She looked surprised, and Zevran couldn’t tell if she found it a curse or salvation.

“That, or death. Now get up,” Alec repeated, offering the woman a hand. She accepted it, standing up on shaky feet. “For all intents and purposes, Rion was keeping you captive. You help me clear the Tower, and you’ll live. What happened here, and your magic choices, I’ll keep to myself.” He looked between Leliana and Zevran. “It’ll stay between us.”

“What will?” Wynne asked as she and Alistair entered the room. They were much worse for wear than when they’d parted ways a few corridors back, and alongside them was a tall, scared-looking man of strawberry blond hair.

“Nothing,” Alec said, and the old lady gave them a concerned look. The Warden shrugged, as if defeated. “Sorry, Tina. Wynne must know.” He gave the blonde  mage an apologetic look, and continued. “Tina knew Rion had dabbled in blood magic, encouraged by Uldred. She overheard him talk with Drei about it, but said nothing because she was scared... But templars might still punish her as an accomplice if this gets out.”

“Were you involved in this?” Wynne asked the woman directly, noticing the blood stains on her robes.

Tina shook her head vehemently.

“They were using her as blood sacrifice. And she wants to help us clear the tower.” Alec was quick with a lie. “At any rate, what happened to you?”

“We encountered a Revenant in the Chapel,” Alistair said, and pointed a thumb to the mage beside him. “And this chap in a closet.”

“I promised to help Godwin back to the safe hall,” Wynne explained. “Perhaps you should go as well, Tina.”

The two younger mages shared a quick look, and Tina picked her staff up from the floor. “No. I’ll help. I n-need to atone for my mistake. I… I mean. I… sh-should have told someone.”

“But we need rest, Wynne,” the Warden interfered before the lie was accidentally unveiled. “We marched from sunup way into the evening yesterday. Leliana has a burn on her upper arm I couldn’t heal to completion. Zevran and Tina need sleep. We need a couple of hours.”

“I can look at the burn. I have a salve here somewhere,” Wynne offered, already fishing a vial out of her pouch. “Someone will have to escort Godwin back.”

Alec ended up agreeing to the task. While he was away, Wynne guided the rest of them to a pair of bedrooms that hadn’t been completely destroyed. Zevran gladly flopped down on the bed as the women took the room adjacent to them. Alistair lay beside him, a pillow safely placed between their bodies to separate them. Zevran was too tired to care about the warrior’s finicky behavior. He rolled around, drifting into slumber almost as soon as his eyes closed.

He did not dream of warm evenings by the coast, though. His mind plagued him with unsettling nightmares. He fled from monsters of faces unknown, found a huge bear that growled and pursued him, tripped over rocks and fell off a cliff, waking up in a startle, sweat dripping down his forehead.

Alistair snored next to him.

“Zev?” The Warden’s voice was wide awake. He was perched up atop a footlocker, back against the wall, staring at the cement-blocked window. There were faint orange-ish beams of light coming through the chinks, barely lightening the dark room. “Got any rest? The first bell will ring soon.”

“This early?” Zevran asked, rubbing sleep off his eyes.

“Yeah. It’s the wake up bell. Mages get some time to wash up and tidy their rooms before breakfast -- Breakfast is second bell. Third means it’s time for studies to begin. Mages live by routine. It’s the way we know what time of day it is, without much sunlight.”

“And if a mage stays in bed?” Zevran rolled on the mattress, pulling covers back over himself.

“Templars cut a toe off,” Alec said, deadpan. “I don’t have the smaller one on either foot.”

Zevran laughed loudly, shoulders shaking. Alec chuckled with him.

Alistair shifted, a moment of silence preceding another snore.

Zevran envied the warrior’s deep slumber. He wished he, too, would sleep so long he wouldn’t have to deal with reality. But sleepiness had fled already, much like the truth in Alec’s tales. He felt sore, but not weak anymore. As short as the nap had been, at least he’d had some of it.

Propping on his elbows, he pushed himself up. He raised his arms above his head, then bent over and placed both palms on the cold floor. He stretched a few more muscles, both because his body needed the warm up after that much fighting, and because he’d noticed Alec’s gaze following his movements. He obliged those longing eyes by showing as much skin as possible.

Up until Alec pried his eyes away, turning to the window instead.

“Did you stay awake, my friend?” Zevran wondered once he was done stretching. Turning his back to the Warden, he lifted his leather skirts and aimed for the chamber pot.

“Someone had to keep watch. Wynne’s up, too,” Alec said. “The Fade here isn’t very inviting for a mage right now, to be honest.” He stood up, fetched an empty basin from a pile of disarrayed things and conjured warm water. “Wash up if you want.”

Zevran accepted the offer gladly. After splashing his face, he pulled his handkerchief from his pouch and wiped off the dirt from his arms and neck. Every time he returned the cloth to the basin, it was redder than before. The water had long turned crimson. “Can you fight without rest?” He asked Alec. “I am beginning to think you are a walking corpse, my friend.” And not only because he was all bones. “Don’t mages need to replenish their mana as well?”

“I got some vials of Lyrium from the stockroom.” Alec rummaged his pouch for something. “And some Camelia leaves. You know, that tea we drank in Redcliffe?” He pulled out a small package with dried, ground black leaves, and offered them. “You can chew on the leaves to wake up.”

Walking over, Zevran picked a small amount and tasted them. His nose wrinkled and eyebrows creased as soon as he closed his mouth, the flavor not at all pleasant. “Ugh,” he shivered, pulling out his water canteen to wash the leaves down his throat. “It is hard not to miss Antiva sometimes.” All of the time. “Back home, we drink coffee to wake up. A true marvel of my homeland, if I do say so myself.”

“Another marvel, you mean... Besides the flowers and sensual assassins,” Alec answered with a soft, nearly inaudible chuckle, scooting to the side on the footlocker to make space for him.

Zevran took the seat next to the mage, a lecherous grin blossoming on his lips. “And how many sensual Antivan assassins have you met, mm?”

“What were you saying about the coffee?”

“Ah, yes. Coffee... It is a drink made from beans that grow in Antiva’s countryside. It gives out a truly delectable aroma, and has a rich bitter taste unlike anything else, my Warden,” he whispered close, partly not to wake Alistair and partly to ride that sensual tension that suddenly hovered between them. Even if Alec danced around flattery and flirtation, it was there, thick as a fog. “Much better than your Fereldan tea, I’m afraid.” And though he hated the taste, Zevran still picked a few more Camelia leaves, if only to trail the pads of his fingers along Alec’s pale wrist and palm in the process. Did the mage’s breath hitch at the touch, or was he hearing things?

“Do you have any of those apples or dried meat left?”

“I don’t.” Alec pursed his lips apologetically. “Are you hungry?”  
  
“No, no,” Zevran lied, hoping his growling stomach would not betray him. He had gone much longer than this without food before, and the Crows had taught him not to complain. He wasn’t about to start whining now. “I simply wanted to trade the taste in my mouth.” His grin crooked, eyes landing on Alec’s pretty, thin lips. “Perhaps there are other ways that can be done?”

“You think so?” Alec narrowed his eyes, lips twitching upwards. He leaned in closer just an inch, his own gaze following bronzed lips. Anticipation bubbled up in Zevran’s stomach… He had not expected his joke to reap any fruits, but he would not mind a kiss in the least. He licked his lips, their foreheads just about touching.

And yet… The teasing mage pulled apart with the wickedest grin on his lips. “Wouldn’t work. I’ve been chewing on these for, I don’t know. A good while. It’d defeat the purpose,” he said. “Perhaps some other time.”

Zevran sighed.

Alec wanted him -- That much was clear in his lustful orchard eyes. But the Warden called the shots, and it would be that much more delightful when desire was so strong he could no longer stop himself from acting on it. Zevran would relish the bittersweet teasing in the meantime.

“You are indeed a cruel man, my Warden,” he said in good nature, his smile loose as he rested his head against the wall and slid eyes closed, letting his mind paint the picture of a kiss that had not been.

“Says the assassin who won’t shut up about Antivan coffee being oh so good, and yet here we are! Nothing but this for breakfast,” Alec picked a few of the Camelia leaves and playfully threw them at Zevran’s face.

“Pff,” Zevran had to comb the dried black leaves from between strands of blonde hair and pick a couple from the collar of his jerkin. Alec sure could act like a child. Was that side of him shining through because they were here, in the Circle, where he’d grown up?

Or had the boy simply lowered his defenses around him? Zevran liked to think so.

Whichever it was, he enjoyed it. He threw a leaf back at him. “Well, should we ever go back to your capital, I am certain I can find a merchant or two selling some coffee beans. I could make us some. You enjoy bitter tastes, am I right?”

Alec offered a large, magnificent smile, curiosity glimmering in his eyes. “I’d like that, actually.” He picked a leaf from his lap and tossed it on the bed several steps away. “And the food. The spices, I mean. You said you’d make us some proper Antivan food. I’d like to try it… If you still want to make it.”

“Most certainly, my friend.” Instead of a flippant remark about being more than willing to satisfy Alec’s desires, he smiled back. It wasn’t sly in the least. “If your country had a cuisine like mine, you would be proud to share it. As I am.” He bumped his shoulder on the Warden’s.

“This conversation is making me so hungry.” Alec groaned. “The kitchen is right upstairs, so I’m hoping we’ll get some food. If not, then…” He tilted his head, planted a hand on Zevran’s thigh and patted it. “I suggest we eat one of your legs first.”

Zevran’s eyes dropped to Alec’s painfully scrawny thighs. “Not much meat on your leg, is there?” He snorted.

“Oy! You--!” Alec protested, elbowing him in the ribs. “If you’re that eager, I can show you _meat_ alright. Never had complaints before.”

“Is that a promise, my Warden?” Zevran waggled his eyebrows, biting his lower lip and narrowing honey eyes at him. “Or just another tease?”

The mage shrugged, leaving the question unanswered. He turned his head, watching Alistair in his deep slumber. A moment ticked by. “We can eat Alistair’s leg.”

Low chuckles dissolved into quietness.

They sat side by side, an arm pressed to an arm, and a leg pressed to a leg, while they chewed on the Camelia leaves. Silence hovered, and for once it invited no demons in. Zevran felt just fine, appreciating the eerie darkness of the room, and the orange beams through the chinks.

Eventually a loud bell rang across the whole tower, starting Alistair awake.

Wynne, Leliana and Tina met them not long after, and they resumed their quest. They double checked the second floor, then moved on to the third. They felled shambling corpses all along the great hall where Zevran figured the mages congregated in big occasions, and in the kitchen they found Templars who had obviously lost their sense of self.

Alec didn’t give them half the benefit of the doubt he had given the blood mages, ordering their party to charge as soon as the possessed Templars noticed their presence.

Fighting Templars proved to be even harder than demons, mostly because Wynne, Alec and Tina had to constantly avoid the Templars’ smite spells. The mages ended up more injured in a single fight against Templars than they had against all other foes. Tina got a cut on her forehead that would have bled copiously if it weren’t for Wynne’s timely healing, and Alec had been shield bashed at least a couple of times. He was curling over himself and clutching at his own chest when they paused to scavenge for food in the kitchen.

Most of the meat left outside had spoiled, but Wynne said the Circle used magic to keep a container with ice inside the pantry, where good food was certain to be found. As soon as she opened the door, a blast of magic sent her flying away.

A bright light shone around her, and Zevran figured she might have cast some spell on herself -- Instead of colliding against the wall, she levitated in the air for a few seconds, and gracefully landed on the cold floor on her own two feet, as if she hadn’t just been hurled across the room.

“What was that?” Alistair asked, sword and shield held up as he approached the door. “Is someone in there?”

Taking tentative steps closer to the pantry, Zevran caught sight of a magic barrier not unlike the one Wynne had cast downstairs.

“Back off, or I’ll make you,” came a man’s voice from inside.

“Eadric?” Alec’s red brows knitted, and he pushed Alistair aside to stand in front of the door. “It’s me, Alec. And Wynne.”

“You fucking--” In a flash, the barrier came down, and an elven man strode outside, gripping his own short brown hair, widened eyes watching the Warden, “sloth humper! What the fuck--? Is it really you?”

They stared at each other for a split second, as if deciding if they should believe their own eyes. Alec’s shoulders dropped suddenly, and he closed the distance between the two of them, cupping the shorter elf’s bruised and dirty face between his palms. “Maker’s breath! You’re alive!” He said, slapping one of Eadric’s cheeks and then pulling him into a hug.

“Me?” Eadric asked in disbelief. “You’re the Lyrium-addled one who went off to die with the Wardens!” His hands clung tightly to Alec’s back, their embrace leaving the rest of them all mute. “We held a fucking wake for you two, you know? You fucking--” he said, pulling apart and looking around, inspecting Alistair and Leliana as if hoping to find someone else. “Where’s--”

“Don’t ask.” Alec interrupted him, gulping visibly. He tilted his head to look at the door behind his fellow mage, nodding at someone. “Hi Yara.”

A dark skinned woman with long brown hair and Antivan features slowly stepped out of the pantry. “Alec,” she greeted him. “Senior Enchanter Wynne. It is surprising to see more people have survived.” Her voice was as monotone as Owain’s.

“Who else is in there?” Wynne wondered. “What are you doing here?”

“We were going to head upstairs and try to stop this madness,” Eadric explained. “I thought... Yara, Humbert and Ern aren’t as likely to be tempted by demons or be controlled by blood magic, so we could stand a chance.”

“Come again?” Wynne looked shocked. “Did you take time to think this over, Eadric? The tranquil are not soldiers.”

“No, but Yara had alternative weapons training with Enchanter Gravid before it was canceled.” Because Wynne didn’t look convinced, the boy shrugged. “Don’t look at me like that. They agreed to help.”

“It was a good plan. It would be good for things to go back to normal,” Yara said. “Not many in the Circle would miss us if we died. Most of you mages would feel less threatened by our being here. It did not seem like a hefty price for Kinloch Hold.”

Zevran felt a chill up his spine. A woman who had no feelings of her own, and gave her own life only the importance other people gave it? It sounded disgustingly familiar. It surprised him the Crows hadn’t invested in an army of tranquil. That would suit their needs just fine.

Wynne gulped. “It _would_ be heftier a price than you assume, Yara.”

“Every life is a hefty price,” Leliana whispered.

“We had to do something!” Eadric continued. “But then Niall got separated from us trying to find the Litany of Adralla, and Humbert got injured. He’s inside. I’ve been trying to keep him alive for... I don’t know how long now. I lost count of the bells. I’m not a Spirit Healer though. It’s bad.”

“Allow me to take a look,” Wynne offered. “How did he get hurt?”

“A Templar’s sword. It got infected.” Eadric stepped aside to let the elder mage walk through the door. “He’s been hallucinating, Wynne.”

Four people hiding in a pantry with an injured, hallucinating tranquil. Zevran couldn’t think of a better way to spend his time.

“Petra and Kinnon are downstairs with the rest of the survivors,” Alec said. “You should go back and wait with them, fishface. The way down is clear.”

Eadric shook his head, eyebrows creasing. “You’re fade-crazed if you think I’m going back now.”

“We’ll handle this. Just take Yara and the rest of the tranquil to safety and we’ll find Niall.”

“No, Alec. What in the Void? You’re the one who used to get it.” Eadric put his staff in front of him. “We get nowhere--”

“--Sitting on our asses. I know,” Alec sighed. “But--”

“No.” Eadric shook his head again. “This is not even your home anymore. But it’s mine, and I am going to defend it.”

The Warden didn’t look like he was about to concede. Funny, for someone who had demanded help from each one of the poor sods who’d begged him for their lives, it sounded fickle to turn down someone who actually wanted to fight.

“The more the merrier,” Zevran said, rolling his weary shoulders and stretching his neck. Alec glared, and he offered the mage a cocky grin. “Yes, yes, I know,” he made himself sound flippant and shallow. “I would normally say that in a very different context. But battle is much like lovemaking in many ways, no? ‘ _A handsome elf is always a great addition_ ’ is what I always tell people, and it seems to fit both contexts, yes?”

Eadric snorted. “I don’t know who he is, but I like him.”

“Of course you do. Look, Eadric, I--” Alec opened and closed his mouth, but seemed to give up arguing. He sighed, and his shoulders dropped. “Alright. Fine. Just... Don’t fucking die.”

In the end the two healthy tranquils agreed to take the injured one downstairs. They each carried a sword of their own as means of protection.

The rest of them took the opportunity to eat breakfast, then ventured deeper into the tower with one more mage in their party.

“So how’s it been... Life as a Warden, and all?” Eadric’s brown eyes watched the unknown people in their party with unconcealed curiosity. “All of youse are Wardens?”

“The tall guy who fights like a Templar is,” Alec pointed his chin towards Alistair walking ahead between Wynne and Leliana. “Leliana thinks the Maker wanted her to fight with the Wardens. And,” he tilted his head to his side, at Zevran. “Zev’s Dalish.”

“Oh?” Eadric turned to him, inspecting the tattoo on his cheek.

“ _Andaran atish’an_ ,” Zevran offered a charming smile, quick to jump on board with the Warden’s lies. But The surprise in Alec’s own eyes at the elvhen phrase was enough to tip his friend off.

“You’re lying,” Eadric accused him, scoffing and hitting the Warden with the head of his staff. “You fucking… Templar toy.”

Alec shoved Eadric away. “Sloth humper.” They both chuckled.

The Warden pulled his friend back to him and ruffled his hair.

But laughter died on their lips as soon as Alistair pushed open the door to the next floor. A pillar at the center of the hall was covered in boiling, pus-ridden flesh. Guts and organs stuck out of the gooey mass of decoration.

Alistair made a face. “Now this is… Entirely unecessary.”

It reeked, and turned Zevran’s insides worse than watching the fifth stage of Lanthrax poisoning.

“Ah... Now I regret breakfast,” he said, holding in bile. It was disgusting.

“Ugh... I’m going to have nightmares after this.” Leliana quickened her steps to get away from the grisly pillar.

But there was no getting away from the gore show. Flesh and limbs littered the corridors. They went through the Templars’ quarters one by one, sweeping each room of their many foes. Possessed Templars and demons and corpses all lurked in the corners. Even with Eadric’s addition -- who turned out to be as good a mage as Alec and Wynne -- they still took a series of bad blows themselves. Zevran felt sore to the bone. Leliana’s clothes were torn in far too many places to mend, Alistair’s steps were heavier than ever -- His greaves clanking and announcing their approach to every foe.

They were so tired that when they came across a demon that was willing to parlay, Zevran almost wished Alec would have let her go. The sodding Templar was as good as dead either way, and companionship that was only in the mind didn’t sound all too bad. All of the fun, none of the clean up. No gross reality to wake up to. No duties, no guilt, no expectations. An eternal, idyllic dream conjured up by a tempting, curvy demon.

On a day like today, even Zevran would have taken it.

Instead they had to fight her -- And the Fade creatures she commanded at will.

While Alistair’s blade sliced through wraiths, Zevran charged towards the Desire demon, certain that battle would be easier once she was down. Someone’s spell gave him agility, but even quick on his feet he couldn’t reach her fast enough. The demon vanished in thin air, reappearing behind him and opening its pretty mouth in a high pitched scream that nearly deafened his ears.

Fear blossomed in his chest, gripping at his heart and bringing him to his knees.

For a moment, everything around him went dark. Zevran was certain there was no winning. She was too powerful a demon for any of them.

An arrow lodged in her back, though, and her scream ceased. The fog dissipated. His thoughts and eyes cleared, and the hopelessness lifted. He drank in his surroundings: Leliana nocked another arrow. Eadric hurled magic towards the Desire demon while Alistair too lifted himself from the ground, looking disoriented. Farther away, Alec and Wynne handled smaller wraiths, and the charmed Templar sent Tina flying straight into a wall. She fell down, unresponsive -- either unconscious or dead.

The Templar charged towards the closest target: Alec.

Zevran tightened his grip on his sword and dagger, deciding whether to attack the Demon or the Templar. He half expected the Warden to turn the Templar into ice, or paralyze him with a glyph, but the large human man brandished his sword up high, a bright fire surging from the blade and staggering the Warden.

Fuck. Smite.

Alec shook his head, blinking when the Templar stormed towards him with his sword held high. The steel came crashing down, and the warden quickly held his staff up in front of himself, recoiling his shoulders as if waiting for the blow to hit.

The stupid fucking Warden didn’t try to dodge! He didn’t even carry a Maker-forsaken blade! His wooden staff split in two, and the steel landed on his shoulder, ripping the leathers and slashing the flesh -- The impact sent him down on the floor with a pained grunt.

Zevran hadn’t even seen that Alistair and Leliana had coordinated an attack on the Desire demon, but his feet had already hastened him towards the Warden.

Alec tried worming his way out of the bewitched Templar’s line of attack, the heels of his feet pushing him back on the floor, but  the man landed a booted foot just above his shin with enough force to break a bone -- Must have, judging by Alec’s screech and the way his body contorted on the floor, trying to escape. He obviously didn’t know how to block a melee attack, and had literally nothing to fight back with.

Zevran himself only had a single dagger at this point. And a pocket knife. He knew he had to finish the fully armored Templar off as fast as possible if he wanted to stand a chance.

The human man lifted his sword again, ready to finish the Warden off. _Perfect_ \-- Zevran thought, swiftly closing the distance between himself and the enemy and sinking the pocket knife into his armpit, where no plate protected him. The man staggered, his head craning back. A slit of flesh exposed on his neck was all Zevran needed to slash his throat open.

Blood showered the Warden, who failed to roll out in time to escape being trapped under the dead Templar’s falling body. The metal armor pulled the air right out of his lungs.

“Fu--” Alec breathed in sharply. “Fuck…” His eyebrows were knitted and eyes tightly shut, chest heaving heavily. “Fuck.”

Zevran knelt down, pushing the corpse from over him. Alec brought a hand up to his wounded shoulder, recoiling when he touched the slashed skin. He was painted in crimson, and it was impossible to tell how much of the blood was his own. Zevran fetched his handkerchief and pressed it to the wounded flesh.

“Lyrium.... Zev! Fuck- Plea-.... Lyr...ium,” Alec begged, eyes losing focus, hand fumbling around own waist for his pouch and vials, unable to reach them.

“Here,” Zevran said, one hand keeping pressure on the injury while another pulled out a vial from Alec’s pouch and uncorked it, dropping the steamy, shiny blue liquid into his parted mouth. The Warden gulped, and coughed, then brought a palm to his shoulder once more, trying to cast a healing spell.

Judging by his face, and the grunt escaping between his teeth, the task wasn’t particularly easy.

“Wynne,” Zevran called, lifting his gaze up.

He saw Alistair on the floor, the lower half of his body caught in an ice block. The old mage was tending to a conscious Tina, and the remaining two were focused on finishing off the Desire demon. It was hunched on itself, almost done for. Leliana pulled her daggers from its back while Eadric rained thunder down on the creature. It shrieked loudly, then finally succumbed.

“Wynne!” Zevran repeated with added urgency.

“Holy Maker,” Eadric was the one to turn around first, noticing the state Alec was in. He hurried to his friend’s side faster than Wynne, magic gleaming around his hands as he dropped to his knees and pressed his palms to the wound. The Warden flinched and grunted in pain. Zevran had withdrawn his own hand, but Eadric didn’t ease up the strength with which he squeezed. “Suck it up, asshat. You can’t die either.”

Wynne went to Alistair first, conjuring fire to melt the ice, telling Leliana to fetch a blanket from the templar’s bed and wrap it around the frozen warrior. She came for Alec next, and Eadric scooted to the side to let her heal him.

Her magical energy was undoubtedly strong -- Even he could see that. Her eyes rolled up their sockets as she channeled it. Slowly the Warden’s skin knitted together, and even more time was needed for her to fix his leg.

Alec tried sitting up to help, lifting his left hand to cast a spell of his own.

Wynne slapped the hand away. “Don’t step on my toes, Surana.”

“Yeah, _Surana_ .” Eadric snickered. “Let the Senior Enchanter work. Don’t be an ass, _Surana_.”

The old woman’s brows furrowed slightly, her voice soft. “ _Hart_.”

“Yeah, _Hart_ ,” Alec scoffed. “Language.”

They liked acting like brats, Zevran concluded as he fetched a healing potion from his pouch.

Alec himself was made to down a couple, and then got back on his feet with his friend’s support, but he limped and nearly fell when he tried walking on his own.

“Whoa, easy,” Eadric said, trying to hold him up.

“I already hated Templars enough as it was,” Alec grumbled, untangling himself from Eadric and instead landing his palm on Zevran’s shoulder. “Didn’t think it was possible to hate them more.”

Spite is a marvelous motivator to keep going, so I am told.” Zevran grinned, snaking his arm around Alec’s waist to support him. He wasn’t sure why, but he enjoyed the fact the Warden had chosen to lean on him, rather than his fellow mage. “How do you feel, my friend?”

“Drenched in blood from head to toe. Down to my small clothes.” Alec looked down at himself. “Ugh. I need a bath.”

Eadric offered him a clean cloth. “Better than dead?”

“Better than dead.” Alec wiped his face best as he could, then smiled gently at Zevran. “Thank you, Zev.”

Zevran shrugged and offered a smug grin. “No better way to express gratitude than with a few sovereigns, yes?”

“Mmm, I don’t know… Technically we’re even.”

“Ah… Alas.” Zevran pursed his lips, feigned disappointment.

Technically, he owed the Warden his life twice over.

“Should we rest a little?” Leliana wondered, blue eyes shifting between the lot of them. Alistair’s teeth were still clattering, and Tina had flopped down on the Templar’s bed, looking like she could really use the break.

“We can’t,” said Alec. “We’ve already wasted too much time.”

“But, Alec,” the Orlesian woman insisted. “Your leg.”

“Wynne has already done everything that magic can do. The rest will take time.” He cut Leliana off before she could utter another protest. “A lot of time. Two, six hours won’t make a difference. I’ll need around a week. Trust me, I would know. I’m a healer too. A damn good one.”

Leliana’s blue eyes narrowed in distrust, and she turned to Wynne. “Is it true? The injury part?”

“Ugh,” Alec rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s true.”

Leliana shrugged apologetically. “You told Alistair mages can turn people into toads.”

“Can’t they?” Zevran had heard that one too, from different sources.

“They can _not_ , as a matter of fact.” Leliana was the one to roll her eyes now.

“Ah well. I’d always thought it was a myth, too.” He arched up a blonde eyebrow. “But… If you’ll allow me the question…. How do you know that, dear woman?”

“I had a good friend who was a mage,” Leliana said. “He was an elf and a healer too.”

And apparently more credible than the Warden. Yet Alec was telling the truth for once.

“I’ve regenerated the sprained knee, but the ligament takes time to regain its strength,” Wynne explained. “Ideally he should not stress it at all for days.”

“Not exactly an option, innit?” Alec grumbled, letting go of Zevran’s shoulder and limping a few steps forward to prove his point. “I can walk, and I can cast. I just need a staff.”

Wynne offered to get one, and the time it took her and Leliana to run down to the stockroom and back was all the rest the lot of them got. Alec leaned on his new staff to walk, and they moved forward to the next set of rooms -- One was the Templar’s armory, where Zevran and Alistair got new blades, and Leliana new armor. Luckily for them there seemed to be few foes left. They found many rooms deserted before they reached the main hall on the fourth floor.

It seemed flesh was the new inner decor fashion choice in the Circle of Magi.

The demon that lurked in the room was almost as disgusting as the piles of tissue. The creature towered over all of them, bigger than a qunari. Its face and body were completely deformed, the muscles exposed without skin to cover. Its voice eerie and grave.

“So here are my visitors? I’d entertain, but... Too much effort involved.” It yawned. “It seems you are very tired as well, is it not so? Aren’t you tired of all the violence in this world?”

Zevran’s shoulders got heavier than ever, his grip on his dagger threatening to cede. His eyelids dropped. “What is this?” He asked, though the words turned into a yawn midway through the sentence. He was tired, it was true. But he’d chewed on the herbs to stay awake.

He had been wide awake moments ago!

This wasn’t natural! “Is this... some... ridiculous ploy to get me to lay down... my guard?”

“Wouldn’t you like to just lay down and... forget about all this? Leave it all behind?”

Yes, he thought, his eyelids drooping.

“Resist,” someone whispered... A soft female voice… So soft, like an embrace he hadn’t ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "I suggest we eat your leg first" conversation is a shameless reference to [this set of gifs](http://raymurata.tumblr.com/post/157954440955) because it's fucking perfect XDDD


	14. Broken Circle 3. The Fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark), [DAfan7711](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711) and [@zippuzzle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zippuzzle/pseuds/zippuzzle) for beta-reading this chapter! for me <3! ILU guys.
> 
>  
> 
> **Content Warnings for this chapter: torture, semi-explicit sexual situation, gore, and death.**

**FOURTEEN  
** Broken Circle 3. The Fade

 

Pain ripped through Zevran’s nerves, the rack ropes pulling sharply at his ankles and wrists, stressing muscles that had been kept strained for hours already. The light had dimmed in the room. He opened his eyes, drawing in a sharp breath, turning his head to the left. 

Fuck. They had closed the window.

The nondescript shapes of the clouds had kept him distracted from the throbbing of his shoulders and soreness of his legs while the Crows were gone. But whenever they came back, the levers were pulled and the winches were wound and the ropes were tightened. 

And then laughter was had. Zevran knew that from experience. It was the worst part, when they snickered to his face and told tales of those who had failed before. They laughed harder when he groaned, when he flinched, when he whimpered. They gloated when he screamed. 

So he had quickly learned not to. The second time they had him on the rack, he bit down so hard he drew blood off his own lips, but he endured it with as little sound as his twelve-year-old self had managed. That earned him his first proper blade, some two months later, once the wounds had healed and he had been sent back on the streets.

Guildmaster Isidora had given it to him herself. She said it had belonged to an apprentice who’d almost made the grade. But he’d said ‘ _ please, stop _ ,’ unaware that the Crows initiating him had just given each other the signal that meant his test was over. What ended instead was his life.

Zevran still had that blade. It would not be someone else’s.

Heat increased near his flank, and he lifted his head to watch the flame of a scorching torch be lowered onto his skin. His heart leaped, racing, pain spreading from the burn to every other nerve in his body. He breathed out through gritted teeth, jaw tensed, chest heaving up and down in rapid succession. His brows creased. 

“I think I saw him flinch now,” one of the Crows said.

“Maybe.” The other pulled the torch away, but the absence of the fire didn’t make the burn any less painful. “We’ll make you scream yet, apprentice.”

“We’re not going to go easy on you, trust me.”

“No... I wouldn’t...” Zevran tried rolling slightly to the side, just enough that the burn didn’t touch the wooden rack, but he only pulled tighter on the ropes in the attempt. Sweat clung to the back of his neck. He groaned. “I wouldn’t... want you to hold back. I’d be disappointed if you... did.” 

He’d rehearsed this with Taliesen. Knowing what to say gave his mind ease, even some joy. If ever he felt tempted to ask for mercy, he knew that mercy was not in the script. 

He had to concentrate. Endure. Impress them. 

“Your gruffy human friend broke already,” the Crow said. “You would be surprised to see how quickly he begged us to stop.”

No. They had to be lying. Taliesen had made it every time so far. He’d have made it through the last test, too… And even if he hadn’t? Zevran knew that sooner or later they would die anyway. Death happened. He was a Crow. Or he was about to become.

Whatever had happened to Taliesen, he couldn’t think about it now. He shouldn’t think at all, but simply accept the pain. “I don’t… care...” He said, panting. “Is this all you’ve got... for me? Too… easy.” 

“This one has spirit... It’s a shame we have to break him.”

“Zevran?”

His eyes snapped open. He knew that voice, but it couldn’t be a Crow’s. The Crows didn’t care to call apprentices by their names. He looked around, but suddenly the room was blurred. The window wasn’t open or closed. It was just gone. What was this place?

“Zev? Can you hear me?” 

Zevran narrowed his eyes to make out the shape of a ginger elf. Funny to find a redhead in Antiva... A pretty one, too. Staring so intently at him with green eyes that reminded him of… The Warden!

What in the Void? This made no sense.

“What are you doing here?” Zevran shook his head, certain that his mind was playing tricks on him. The Warden wasn’t a Crow. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“This is the Fade, Zev,” the Warden said. “We were trapped in Sloth’s realm. The rack, the pain - None of this is real. Break out.” 

The pain! It had disappeared momentarily, but the moment the Warden mentioned it, the Crows wound the winch, and the ropes pulled. He heard the cracking of his own elbow joints, his teeth gritting to suppress a groan, body trying to thrash, to pull against the binds. 

“Zevran! Listen to me.”

“I can’t!” he cried, the pain sharper than ever. His breath came out ragged. “I need... to stay strong.” He was losing focus. He couldn’t break away from the script, or let the pain take away his sanity. He couldn’t let himself believe whatever the Crows told him. “This is my test,” he panted. “I am going to be a Crow... I need to show them... I can... tolerate... pain.”

“You are a Crow already. You were hired to kill the Wardens,” that soft voice echoed. “These are not Crows. They’re demons.”

“What? That cannot be!” For the first time Zevran actually turned his gaze to his torturers. What greeted him were long, sharp ears and swirling vallaslin! They weren’t Crows! He’d seen them before in his own nightmares! Maker’s breath! The Warden spoke the truth. 

Zevran remembered trying to kill him... Or at least trying to put an end to the regret that festered in his heart… To the recurring pain of picturing Rinna’s open throat… to the numbing pain that every other memory in his life was made of. Like this one.

“Is this nothing but a bad dream? A bad memory?” 

And if it wasn’t real…. Neither could the pain be!

His shoulders eased. The burn on his flank was gone. He caught his breath. 

“Oh, I think he’s questioning us!” One of the false Crows said. He moved to pull the lever again, then stopped and stared as his hand was encased in a block of ice.

Magic danced at the Warden’s fingertips, the false Crow fighting himself free of the spreading ice. . “Break out, Zev. Do it already!”

Trusting him, Zevran gathered strength and pulled at the ropes at his wrists and ankles. He could not have escaped the real Crows -- they did not make such mistakes. But this was not the Crows.. He broke free, and in a swift movement he sprang from the rack, reaching for the blades he carried and finding none. . “I need daggers.”

“Behind you!” Alec said, using his staff to keep one of the false Crows at bay.

There, on the ground, Zevran found the two daggers he’d nicked from the Templars’ the Circle -- their weight was right in his grip -- and charged against the Crows. False Crows. False Dalish. Demons. Whatever they were, it was satisfying to slice his nightmares down. 

Every time his steel sunk into their flesh, he felt more like himself. The excruciating pain from the torture was gone, but the memory of it was not. 

He pierced through a false Crow’s stomach and twisted the pommel of the dagger, enjoying the way the elf’s face contorted, his mouth the shape of an ‘o’, a mute screech caught in his throat. “Who is screaming now?” Zevran asked viciously, wishing the body would bleed on his hands and the elf would fall to his knees. 

Instead the demon simply turned into dust. Not half as satisfying as seeing them dead would have been.

“Are you alright?” Alec asked, approaching and placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“Never better,” he lied, offering a trained, cat-like grin. “That was quite bracing, in fact. Nothing like a good racking, yes?” Sarcasm was better than admitting he was not alright at all. 

Alec’s freckled palm moved from his shoulder to cup his tattooed face. Zevran kept the mask steady, grinning as if nothing was out of place. The Warden patted his cheek, and said nothing, withdrawing his hand and leaving him wanting for the touch to last longer.

Foolish. To miss skin on skin so much that any touch, from anyone, left him longing.

The Warden turned around, steady on his feet. He didn’t limp at all. Was it because of the Fade? Did mages have more power in here?

Zevran felt rather weak himself. His hands shook as he sheathed his daggers. “How did you know where the blades were?”

“I didn’t,” Alec walked away, gesturing for Zevran to follow. “You just had to believe they were wherever I said they were. Even in a demon’s lair, the Fade still shapes to will.”

“So I can wish for anything and it will come true?” Zevran asked, honest chirpiness lacing his tone. “Anything at all?” 

Perhaps he could wish for a mountain of gold. Or an Antivan banquet in a royal palace. A royal palace with countless beautiful women and men with whom to drown his sorrow. Better yet, a Tevene bath house! Gorgeous nymphs in wet dresses! Maker, after that far too vivid nightmare, there was nothing he wanted more than to bury himself between someone’s legs and have a single moment of pleasure. When had the last time been?

He missed hands on naked skin, lips on his lips. He craved touch so bad it was angering.

The floor under his feet changed from grass to marble. He looked up, and Alec was but a faint fog. “Warden? Where are you going?” Zevran asked, watching the mage disappear in the mist. 

When he turned around, though, he found the very dream he had asked for waiting for him.

A hot bath, and far more beautiful women and men than he could count -- All shapes, sizes and colors. He grinned, letting himself enjoy the sight of them just a moment longer.

One elven girl in particular caught his eye. She had soft blonde hair, an innocent round face and beautiful big brown eyes like hazelnuts. But when she looked at him, her grin was sly and playful rather than naive. She took slow steps towards him, her wet dress clinging to white skin, her small breasts and hard nipples showing through wet cloth. She placed her palms on his chest and ran her fingertips down, ripping the fabric of his leather jerkin with her fingernails. 

Holy Maker, did that set fire aflame within him.

She rid him of his leathers, then took him by the hand to the steamy pool, straddling his lap and kissing his mouth. Far more hands than two hands touched his body. 

Someone licked the helix of his ear. and Zevran turned to find it was an elven boy of green eyes, long ginger hair and freckled skin. A perfect lookalike of the Warden, he was -- Even the smug smirk, that raw confidence in his eyes. 

Zevran swallowed the distance between their lips, collecting the kiss that had been promised in the real world. When their mouths parted, the Warden turned to the blonde girl on Zevran’s lap, pulling her down into a lustful kiss right in front of his eyes. She moaned against the Warden’s lips, grinding her hips on Zevran’s arousal. He gasped against her pale throat.

For a dream, it felt so real.

But it wasn’t. Kinloch Hold wasn’t yet safe. He had to leave this dream.

“Why?” The blonde girl asked, pouting. As if she had read his mind. She loosened the ties on her dress, beckoned him closer. “Touch me,” she demanded. “Stay.”

He grew suspicious.. Was this still Sloth trying to make him lower his guard and give up fighting? After being tricked into it, had he gone and sprung a trap upon himself? 

Zevran scoffed. He had to get out of here before he forgot where he was again. But how? Had the rest of their party gotten caught in the Fade as well? Could he find them if he wished it? 

As if on cue, the space around him shifted. Marble became stone, the warmth of the water now cold. He was fully dressed, standing in the middle of Kinloch Hold’s large library. 

He found Eadric hunched over a pile of books. 

“You’re standing in my light!” the mage complained, looking up and knitting brown eyebrows at him. “Oh. I thought it was someone else. I’m sorry... er... Who are you?”

“My friend,” said Alec, suddenly -- magically -- standing beside him.

This place was going to give Zevran a massive headache. 

“Don’t you remember him, fishface?” Alec asked Eadric. “I thought you would. Either way, we’ll get nowhere sitting on our asses. We need to finish ridding the tower of demons. You and I, yeah? The Templars gave up on the Circle.”

“Huh?” Eadric frowned, confused, narrowing his eyes at Alec. “What are you talking about? The tower is safe. We rid it of demons months ago.” He looked down at his books. “What are you even doing here again? You’re a Warden. Go do Warden stuff. I’ve got too much to study and you’re distracting me.” 

“We’re in the Fade.”

“And Skyler is half elf. I almost believed that one.” Eadric scoffed, turning a page.

“Eadric--”

“Look, Alec. You and Sky got what you wanted. You’re Wardens. Now it’s my chance to get what I want. The Arcane Advisor position is still open since Uldred never took it. And yes, I know what you’ll say. That they’ll think I’m too young. But if I can prove to Irving and the king that I am the best option, I might get the position. It’s not First Enchanter, but it’s something. Now unless you have big, important Warden matters to discuss, can you kindly, gently move your stupid ass out of my light so I can focus on my studies?”

With a flicker of his hand, Alec set Eadric’s book aflame. 

“What the f-?” 

“The king is dead. And  _ Skyler _ is dead.” Alec said. “Skyler died in Ostagar... Right in front of me. I watched an ogre crush them, and there was no mending Purpose could do. So you can stop being jealous and just... Fucking. Look. Around, Eadric!”

Finally taking Alec seriously, Eadric gulped and did as asked. 

He looked around the room, eyes narrowing at the blurred edges of the library shelves, at the faceless mages that walked about, lurking in their proximities.

“We’re in the Fade,” he concluded at last.

“Genius,” Alec chuckled wearily. “Only took you a day.”

“Asshole,” Eadric retorted, not angrily. “At least I didn't get my ass handed to me by Ser Drass.”

“That part you remember then? Dumbass.”

“At least you came out alive.” Eadric shrugged.

The Warden shifted uncomfortably on his feet, looking away at the faceless mages. “Ready your staff.” 

“I’m sorry, Alec.” Eadric glanced at Zevran, then back at his friend. “About... You know. Sky.”

Whoever Skyler had been, everyone mentioned them. Everyone but Alec, up until now. Yet after suddenly and gruesomely describing their death, the Warden went back to avoiding the subject. 

“We need to find Sloth,” was all he said.

“You can’t go!” One of the faceless mages screamed, leading a pitiful attack against them, only to fall to their steel and magic. These were simply Sloth’s minions. 

Eadric and Alec led the way through twisting, shapeless corridors of the Fade until they came face to face with Sloth itself. Leliana, Wynne, Alistair and Tina joined them, along with a nondescript mage with mousy brown hair -- Niall, Wynne had called him. The demon had taken his body several days back and fed off it until he had withered away. Now his mind was trapped in that foggy realm of dreams for as long as Sloth commanded it. 

Zevran didn’t pretend to understand how the Fade worked, but what he did know was that they did not want to stay to suffer the same fate, and that his blades sunk the same when he stabbed his foes. He knew that Sloth could die -- And it died.

He woke disoriented, back against the cold hard floor of Kinloch Hold. He blinked slowly, and couldn’t hold back a pained groan. None of the slashes and bruises from the Fade carried through to the real world, but he still had real aches to account for. 

He sat up, finding Eadric and Wynne lamenting over Niall’s body. The elder lady closed his eyes with gentleness, and Leliana offered to sing him and the rest of the dead mages a prayer once all of this was done.

“Assuming  _ we _ don’t become decorative art on the walls,” Zevran said, pushing himself up.

Alistair laughed at the jest. He offered Alec help to stand, but the mage dismissed him.

“The litany.” Eadric handed the Warden a paper scroll.

Alec rolled it open, skimming eyes over the words and passing it on to Tina. “Your task. Reading this aloud the moment we find Uldred until we kill him.” 

Tina nodded, swallowing thickly. “I’ll do it.”

A gelid wave of fear ran down Zevran’s spine. It was one thing to trust the blood mage woman to fight demons and abominations with them -- The creatures didn’t discriminate, and she had to kill to stay alive. But if he understood correctly, Tina had been on Uldred’s side when this began.

Unlike Leliana, Zevran didn’t think Tina was sorry. She simply wanted to save herself. But who could offer her salvation more certainly? Alec or Uldred?

Once most of their party had left the hall to resume their journey through the tower, Zevran held Alec back by the arm. “I have a question, if I may,” he asked in a whisper. The Warden nodded. “Not to question your leadership, my Warden, but… I am led to believe this Litany is essential for our survival?”

“It is.”

“Well, then,” he cleared his throat. “I have seen you are a merciful man, and it has served me well, but… Why give the litany to the one person most likely to betray you?”

“She won’t.” There was conviction in his tone. “I know it.”

Zevran chuckled, finding him almost naïve. “How?”

“I saw her nightmare too.” 

Oh… Oh.

Zevran swallowed thickly, suddenly realizing that the Warden had seen, and remembered, those bitter memories of his Crow initiation. His chest tightened, embarrassment surging where once there had been pride. No one but another Crow could possibly understand that kind of shit…

“I have a wild guess it was not as fun as mine, yes?” His chuckle was choked.

“Alec?” Alistair called, walking back to the hall and opening his arms widely, a grin on his lips. A welcome interruption. “Is your leg good? Do you need carrying back there? Piggy-back?”

“Don’t even.” Alec stifled a snort, giving Zevran’s elbow a squeeze before he limped out of the hall.

Tina practiced the Tevene-sounding words of the Litany under her breath while they combed through the rest of the rooms in the tower and headed upstairs towards what Wynne called the Harrowing Chamber. An ominous name if Zevran had ever heard one. Before they reached their destination, though, they bumped into one more Templar. Unlike the Templar ensnared by the demon, this  one was locked behind a magical cag.Hunched over himself, hands clasped together, he rasped a steady stream of prayers and refused to acknowledge their arrival.

To Zevran’s surprise, it was Alistair who recognized the man first.

“Rutherford?”

At his name, the Templar lifted his head, eyebrows creasing. “Alistair?” He glanced at the rest of them. “And more mages… Filthy blood mages! No! This must be another trick! You’re not even trying hard enough anymore, demon! Ser Knickers never became a Templar! He couldn’t be here! None of this is real!” He looked down and resumed prayer. “You broke all the others, but I must stay strong… For my sake… for theirs…”

“Ser Knickers?” Alec gave Alistair a lopsided grin. “Is that you by any chance?”

“Maaaybe?” Alistair’s cheeks turned a faint shade of red. 

Alec chuckled. “Stranded somewhere with no pants on? Someone dead? I remember that.” 

“Oh, that sounds like a story!” Zevran waggled his brows at the human warrior.

“No one  _ actually _ died! Except my reputation.” Alistair scratched the back of his neck with a gloved hand, an awkward chuckle in his throat. “How about we don’t spread it? Especially not to nasty Wilds Witches?”

“If it’s any consolation, we called Cullen here Ser Balls-for-Brains,” Alec shrugged. 

Alistair frowned. “As a point of curiosity… Was there any Templar you called something nice?” 

“Ser Dunne -- She was decent.” 

“Ser Drass wasn’t all bad,” Eadric suggested. 

Alec made a face. “Yeah, but he nearly killed me today, so he can rot in the Void.” 

“Maker. I’ve never been more glad for Duncan than in these past twenty-four hours.” Alistair took a step towards the caged Templar, who continued to mumble prayers. “Anyhow. We should try to set Rutherford free.”

Wynne had been inspecting the cage while they talked. “I don’t think we can… I’ve never seen anything like this.” She tried touching the barrier, and a blast of magic sent her staggering back. Cullen looked up. 

“What are you still doing here?! Go away, demon!”

“Rest, child. Help is here,” Wynne soothed him. “How did you end up in this cage?”

“Uldred! Or one of his mages,” the man said with disdain in his voice. He stood up, finally willing to talk to them. He addressed Alistair. “Are you here to end this?”

“We are here to try,” Alistair said.

Leliana nodded. “Do not despair.”

“Where are Irving and the other mages who fought Uldred?” Wynne asked. “In the Harrowing Chamber still?”

“Yes, yes,” Cullen’s face contorted into pure anguish. “The sounds--! The sounds coming from there…. Oh, Maker!” He covered his face, pulling at short, curly strands of hair.

“Let’s go then.” Alec suggested. Eadric nodded. “Before it’s too late to save anyone.” 

“No!” Cullen screamed, stretching a hand out to stop them. His fingers touched the barrier and a yelp followed the sound of something sizzling. The templar clutched his own hand. “You can’t  _ save _ them! You don’t know what they’ve become! The blood mages, they’ve corrupted their minds! To ensure no abominations or blood mages survive… No one in that chamber can be left alive! It’s the only way to end this horror! To kill every mage that stands in this tower.” 

Kill everyone? Zevran lifted his eyebrows in surprise. Kill every starving, crying child on the first floor? Give the mage who wanted death what she’d asked for? Kill Wynne, and Eadric, after both of them had fought tirelessly to get here? Kill everyone for one person’s deeds?

Zevran had heard of such things happening before. 

House Arainai was too small for such drastic measures, but the Romero had done it once, when he was a kid. Rumor had it that two recruits’ mutiny had led to over thirty deaths. Guildmaster Romero wasn’t sure who had been complicit with the rebels, so she had taken the lives of everyone close enough to be a suspect.

He wasn’t sure whether the story was true, or just a wild tale to scare recruits, but one thing he knew for sure: If guildmaster Romero had truly ordered those deaths, she most certainly had not taken their lives herself. She hadn’t looked her recruits in the eye. The higher ups never did. 

He wondered if this scared Templar would still want to carry out such slaughter if he weren’t locked in that cage, urging someone else to do the dirty work. 

If he had to hold the steel to each one of those children’s throats.

Zevran scoffed. “Easy to ask for slaughter when one doesn’t have to do the heavy lifting.”

“Indeed,” Leliana agreed. “Such a cruel suggestion.”

It was satisfying, and quite relieving, to know that no one in their party would pay the Templar’s plea any heed. The four mages would not agree to their own genocide, and Leliana’s faith came in the shape of pity much more than blind obedience. 

Only Alistair seemed the kind to follow Chantry protocol, but Zevran doubted the former Templar had the guts to follow through with mass mage slaughter. He didn’t look like someone who could live with the weight of the deed on his shoulders. 

“His hatred of mages is so intense… what happened here… the death of his friends, it’s fresh in his mind still.” Alistair said.

“Mages died too,” Alec protested, anger flaring. 

“I know,” Alistair agreed. “No more innocents should die today. He probably doesn’t know that the children have survived. Rutherford has always been a good Templar. He was one of the best in the monastery… He must be in shock.”

“I’m not in shock!” The Templar shouted. “I am thinking clearly -- for the first time in my life!”

“Balls for brains,” Alec said again, shaking his head and dismissing the Templar with a wave of his hand. He started limping towards the staircase. “We’ll deal with him after we kill Uldred.” 

“No one listens… until it’s too late.” Cullen still mumbled as they made their way past him.

Not all of Cullen’s fears were unfounded. The fate of most mages in the chamber was indeed gruesome. Some were held in chains and bars, tied to one another and most likely drained of their ability to use magic. They were all covered in blood, which could only mean they were being used as sacrifice. More abominations stalked around the room, and their party arrived just in time to watch the leader -- Uldred, Zevran figured -- turn a normal looking mage into a pile of flesh and horror. He was  _ making _ these creatures at will. 

“Maker!” Tina gasped, taking a horrified step back. Her trembling hands fumbled through her pockets, pulling out the scroll. 

Gulping visibly, she began to stutter the enchantment.

It was all the sign they needed to charge against Uldred -- Though every time he or Alistair tried to get close to the mage, an abomination thwarted their attempts. He dodged attacks thanks to muscle memory. Whatever brainpower was left in him was focused on finding weaknesses on their foes, aiming for eyes and necks and groins, and finishing them off as quickly as possible. 

Alistair roared, blood splattering on his face as he severed the head of the last of the abominations with a swift, skilled slice of his sword. He hastened towards Uldred, steel colliding against a barrier. A blast of energy sent him staggering back several steps.

And yet Uldred stood unharmed. With a flicker of hands he conjured shadows of dragonlings to replace the fallen abominations.

The creatures had no physical body, but breathed fire and attacked them as ferociously as corporeal animals would. They had to run to avoid the fire, and it took stabbing the dragonlings’ cloudy-like form over and over to finally make the magic dissipate into thin air. 

Zevran panted, arms throbbing with pain and exhaustion. Killing was so much easier when his marks were people rather than demons. When he could hide in corridors and handle his targets one by one… Or charm them. He had long run out of stamina.

Leliana had run out of arrows. Alec failed to freeze one of the dragonling and Wynne finished it off with a stone fist. Alistair bashed another one of the creatures against the wall with his shield, the sword faltering in his trembling hands. The final dragonling exploded with Eadric’s spell. Tina continued to murmur the Litany of Adralla under her breath. 

And yet Uldred still stood, more determination in his stance than all the rest of them put together. Raising his hands, the mage rained thunder over their heads.

Leliana dropped to her knees, her tormented screech ringing in the hall. 

Alec and Wynne hunched over themselves, the Warden holding tight to his staff to keep from falling.

Electricity washed through Zevran’s muscles -- It wasn’t even pain. It was numbness. He tried to take a step forward, but his foot couldn’t finish the movement, as if it were tethered to the floor by a gigantic weight.  He couldn’t. Fucking. Move. 

The air pulled next to Zevran like a current from a window. He watched from the corner of his eyes as Eadric strode straight towards Uldred -- lightning sparking when it landed on the shiny barrier Eadric had cast upon himself. The buzz of electricity drowned out every other sound in the hall, but Zevran could see Eadric’s mouth moving as he reached his arm out and splayed his fingers wide right before Uldred’s eyes.

Uldred grabbed Eadric’s wrist, electricity flowing straight from him onto the elf’s arm, bypassing the barrier Eadric had cast -- so strong the sleeves of his robes caught fire. The flames spread quickly up his arm, yet Eadric did not pull away. Magic gathered at the tips of his burning fingers. 

Eadric closed his hand, and the whole upper part of Uldred’s body exploded -- Brains and guts splattering on the bound mages behind him.

In a flash, the thunderstorm ceased. 

Eadric fell back on the stone floor with a  _ thud _ .

The Circle sure had its share of brave idiots.

“Fuck!” Alec panted, rushing to the elf as quickly as limping steps allowed. He fell to his knees next to his friend, casting ice to snuff out the fire that had already consumed almost all the flesh of his arm. “Fuck. Eadric.” 

Wynne sat opposite Alec, planting her palm on the unconscious mage’s chest, then his good wrist. “His heart is unsteady.”

“I can’t tap into the Fade long enough to heal,” Alec’s voice shook. His hands trembled as he fumbled through his pouch for more Lyrium, then turned around to look at the bound mages. The only one awake was an old man with an unkempt grey beard. “Is there Lyrium a--?” 

“Uldred used everything,” the old man said.

Wynne flashed him a worried glance. “Irving, are you alright?” 

“I’ve been better, but I’ll live,” he said wearily. “Save Eadric first. If anyone can, it is you, Wynne.”

“I--” The old lady returned her gaze to the young mage on the floor. Alec had his hands pressed to his chest, the bluish gleam of healing magic barely visible. “His heartbeat is unsteady. I don’t believe it can pump blood properly like this, and I’m afraid healing magic can’t--”

“No,” the Warden hissed. “The electricity fucked with his heartbeat so we can-” He pressed his hands harder over Eadric’s chest, casting an electricity spell, as if shocking his heart could undo what Uldred’s spell had done. “We can force-start it again, we just have to--” He lifted his head, despairing orchard eyes scanning the rest of them until they landed on Tina. “Blood magic.”

“Blood magic?” Wynne looked shocked.

“Tina.” Alec ignored the elder mage. “Blood magic can manipulate blood just like we can shape mana. So you can-- You can make it flow inside his veins.” 

The woman went pale as if the blood had been taking right out of  _ her  _ face. “I’m… I’m not--!” 

“I let you live!” Alec breathed heavily. “You have to try!”

“Alec, son,” Irving interrupted, his tired voice just a whisper. “You are a smart man. After what Uldred’s done... After what we just went through, you know using more blood magic would be a mistake on top of so many mistakes that were committed here.”

“Speak for yourself!” Alec huffed, sweating as he continued to press his palms to his friend’s chest. “Eadric didn’t make any mistake. He’s saved you, Irving! And Tina’s not going to call on demons with Blood Magic. It’s just a tool.” 

“Is this going to be routine now?” Alistair asked bitterly. “Condoning blood magic?”

“It’s not the right tool, Alec.” Wynne insisted. “We cannot condone it.”

“Aren’t you tired of outliving your apprentices, Wynne?” Alec snarled at her, and she recoiled as if slapped. His palm moved from Eadric’s chest to his throat, feeling for his pulse. “This will work! Tina just has to make his blood flow!”

“I’ve never done that!” Tina protested. “I can’t!”

Alec’s eyes burned with anger and desperation. He fumed. “You either fucking try, or Eadric’s won’t be the only dead body here.” 

“I understand your loss, son, I do. I will be forever grateful for what Eadric has done.” Irving said, as if Eadric were dead already. “But you are tired, without mana, and you should not resort to idle threats.”

What a condescending pile of shit. 

Zevran drew his daggers once more, taking swift steps towards the ingrate old mage and pressing the sharp blade to his throat. Wynne’s eyes widened in horror.

“Oh, but the Warden is not without means, my bearded friend,” Zevran threatened, grinning viciously to let fear spread in their hearts. If Alec needed an old man’s death for an elf’s life, he was quite willing to assist. “How many bodies do we want, mm?”

“Zevran!” Clutching his sword, Alistair threatened to take a step forward, but Leliana stopped him, grabbing him by the arm.

Irving’s throat rubbed on the blade when he gulped. “Alec?”

Alec’s voice was far less desperate and far more in control when he spoke again. He did not ask Zevran to withdraw the blade from Irving’s throat. “We can solve this easily and with no deaths. Tina must only try and help me make Eadric’s heart beat steadily again.” 

Shaking visibly, the woman looked between the many pairs of eyes that now watched her, all of them expecting  _ something _ to be done. Gulping, she kneeled down next to Wynne and stared at Eadric’s unmoving face. Alec handed her his pocket knife and she made a small cut on Eadric’s arm. Blood trickled onto his robes, then stopped flowing out.

While Tina forced blood to flow through Eadric’s veins back to his heart and head, Alec resumed the massage on his chest, pressing his palms above his ribs and casting electricity spells. 

Alistair watched with mouth agape, and Leliana whispered prayers under her breath. 

Zevran wished it were over soon, for better or worse. 

Every second had stretched on like hours already.

“Maker! I think it--” the Warden let out a shaky chuckle, leaning down to listen to Eadric’s breath. “It fucking worked! It worked!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking around and reading regardless of unsteady schedule! <3  
> If you wanna make my day, let me know what you thought of the chapter! =D


	15. Broken Circle 4. Grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark), [DAfan7711](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711) and [Rosehip](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosehip/pseuds/Rosehip) for beta-reading this chapter!  
> GUYS! CLICK ^ those people's names NOW! Go check their stuff out. All of them have Zev/Warden content. <3
> 
> **Content Warnings for this chapter: explicit sexual situation, grief.**

**FIFTEEN  
** Broken Circle 4. Grief

 

Alec insisted they stay the night in the Circle.

It was for the best. They were all knackered, both physically and mentally.

Every muscle in Zevran’s body hurt. He’d been thrown around like a sack of potatoes, and for all the healing and elfroot salves, everything still ached. His thoughts were slow and movements lethargic, even a bit aimless, wiping the same slow circles upon his pauldron with a wet cloth.

The mages had brought them food and drawn them baths, and so they’d taken turns washing up. Zevran had put on a pair of cotton pants and shirt from his bag, and used the warm bath water to clean the blood and guts off his leathers.

Even being a Crow, to whom torture chambers were nothing short of commonplace, he’d never seen people turned inside out as gruesomely as they’d witnessed that day. Leliana had thrown up, and he wasn’t sure if it was from disgust or exhaustion. She’d fallen asleep midway through her murmured prayers, and Alistair had drifted into slumber not a second after lying in bed.

With so many deaths, the surviving apprentices barely filled up one of the rooms in the first floor, and their party had been given the other one. Alec had left after bathing and returned to the bedroom a long while later, when Alistair and Leliana were already deep asleep.

Quietly, the Warden sat down on a bed and there he stayed, still as a statue. His eyes were empty, staring at the walls without focusing.

Zevran was the sort to fill silence with vain conversation -- It was part of his charm, and he’d done it gladly the night before as they rested mid-battle -- but now that the fighting was done and the bodies were being swept out of the tower, he dared not disturb Alec’s thoughts.

He was scared the mage would make him a confidant.

Alec had grown up in this place after all, with the people they’d either killed or found dead. With Eadric, whose arm had been burned beyond salvation and who’d still been unconscious when they’d carried him out of the Harrowing Chamber.

Alec had grown up with Tina, whom the Templars had seized after the Tower was declared safe.

He had probably been intimate friends with people whose flesh and guts still covered the walls of the tower, whose corpses littered the corridors. It made for terrible chit-chat, all of it… And judging by the looks of him, Zevran didn’t doubt it’d end in mourning.

Perhaps it was selfish, but he didn’t want Alec’s grief.

He had no idea how grieving was even supposed to go.

Death signaled the end of the hunt, a job well done, a heavier pocket and a satisfied customer. He _couldn’t_ allow himself the luxury of considering what death entailed for those who hadn’t wished it upon the mark. Whether the assassinated party had a son who needed their support, a sister with whom they read novels, a lover somewhere? That was none of his business. The moment an assassin allowed themselves to learn anything about the people who would lament their mark’s demise, they were only creating room for regret, for doubt, and ultimately, for _failure_.

The Crows didn’t tolerate failure.

An assassin who grieved was one meant to be grieved very soon.

And that was never _him_. He had toasted other Crows’ deaths, relished the knowledge that there would be less competition for a contract the next time around. He caused deaths, and enjoyed them, and anticipated them… But he had never mourned them.

He had never mourned _her_.

Death happened. You looted a trinket from the cold body and kept it to remind you of a job well done if you needed anything to hold on to. Then you moved on. Or you didn’t. It didn’t matter.

Assassins had cold hearts.

“That water must be cold,” Alec said, pushing himself out of the bed, casting a heating spell into the bucket Zevran was using. “Your boots left? Mind if I help?”

Alec didn’t wait for an answer. He picked a boot and a cloth with which to wipe the blood off. He frantically rubbed the cloth on the leather, red eyebrows knitting. His shoulders dropped. He opened and closed his mouth, and sighed, but said nothing.

Was this when the _sharing_ ensued? A clean boot for a rental ear?

“If you’re not willing to get any shut-eye, my dear Warden, I can think of a few things we could do,” Zevran purred, an impossible smirk on his lips. For all the flirting they’d bounced back and forth, he’d half hoped Alec would find this a tactless time for sexual advances.

He half hoped Alec would leave.

“Getting plastered would be a nice start,” the mage replied without batting an eyelash, a last wipe on the heel of the boot. “You know what,” he placed the boot on the floor and slowly rose to his feet, still using his staff for a cane. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Zevran’s blonde eyebrows wrinkled with worry as he watched Alec go -- staff thudding loudly on the floor with each limped step the mage took, until he was gone.

Silence fell, and Zevran realized he had only _half_ hoped Alec would leave.

The other half now thought drinking didn’t sound too bad.

He put on the just-cleaned boots and ventured up the stairs.

Although he remembered the kitchen was on the third floor, Kinloch Hold was a labyrinth. No doubt some wicked plan to confuse and torture young recruits in their youthful naivety, he figured, growing impatient every time a door he turned proved itself _not_ the dining room.

By the time he did reach it, he was at least several coins richer, pockets heavy with little trinkets found in random trunks.

“So this is where the fun is,” he announced himself, spinning a golden quill between his fingers.

Alec barely offered him a sideways glance. “Thieving?”  

“Looting from the likely dead doesn't count as theft, my good friend. It is mere repossessing.”

“I suppose.” The Warden did nothing but nod listlessly, a tankard in his pale hands, eyes staring into nothingness.

Zevran told himself that he was here for the ale, and the ale alone.

If the crying and whining started, he'd make himself scarce faster than the mage could blink.

Alec downed his drink and belched quietly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He held his tankard out in front of Zevran. “Here, fill it up for me, will ya? Get yourself some as well.”

“Yes, my lord,” Zevran nodded with exaggerated, feigned servitude, fetching another tankard and drafting the ale into both. “Anything else, my lord?”

“Oh, shut up, I cleaned your bloody boot.”

“Quite literally, my friend.” He chortled good-naturedly, placing drinks upon the wooden surface as he got himself a seat.

“I'll pay for the next round,” Alec jested.  

“Now aren’t you a generous man.” Zevran wiggled his brows. “Are we going all night?”

A sparkle of life returned to Alec’s eyes. “If you make it entertaining, sure.”

The corner of Zevran’s lips turned upwards. This, he was good at. “What kind of entertainment do you have in mind, exactly?” His previous offer could be as serious as it was a jest, depending on what the Warden wanted it to be.

“I don’t know,” Alec said, raising the mug and puckering his lips, slurping the foam of his drink. His cheeks were a delightful shade of drunken red.

Zevran admired the shape of his lips, his jaw and slender neck. His eyes traveled down to the freckled clavicle exposed by the plain clothes and he pictured himself riding his tongue along the bones, and down, as far as those freckles went. He entertained the thought of Alec’s hands on his own body, long fingers buried in his hair, magic pricking on the skin.

Zevran made no point of concealing the thirst in his stare. He didn’t usually grow that interested in men, and he would just as well fall into bed with the Warden simply to secure protection against the Crows, but there was beauty in Alec, and it wasn't hard to want him.

He brought the ale to his own lips and hummed with the delicious, rich taste. “Oh, I see you were not lying. Your desire-less friends do make marvelous brew.”

“The Tranquil.”

“Yes,” Zevran nodded. “For a gilded cage, your home had its… gems.” He licked his lips. “Perhaps we should steal some of this.”

“If you’re carrying,” Alec joked, downing yet another tankard and snorting. “I can carry my share more easily if it’s in my belly.” He leaned on his staff and stood up to refill. “My friends and I once stole Pether’s recipe and sneaked into the kitchen to try and brew it ourselves. Massive disaster.”

“If it’s anything like your cooking, I can only imagine.”

“Oy, my cooking is better than Alistair’s.”

“Debatable,” Zevran chuckled.

“My friend Maggot -- Her name was actually Laura -- She had this brilliant idea to use magical fire to speed it up, and it made the ale spill all over the kitchen. It took a team effort of eight hands and several spells to clean it up, but we still reeked of hop when the Templars caught us.” He chuckled. “We were lucky Pether had always respected Skyler, and he agreed to lie to save our asses. You saw how the Tranquil sound. No one can tell when they’re lying.”

“They would do wonderfully at Wicked Grace, no?”

Alec laughed. “They would at that. And they wouldn’t even get angry if they were cheated.”

“We should invite them for a game tonight, then.”

“They do sleep, you know.” Alec rested his back on the chair, craning his neck to look upwards. “Except Owain. Owain’s always organizing the stockroom. Eadric and I messed all of it on a bet once. Then Skyler made us go back and organize it all over again... I think he actually liked the mess. Gave him more to work on.” He chuckled to himself. “We also changed book titles in the library all the time just to watch people freak when they couldn’t find what they wanted.”

Zevran got a second serving of ale. “It seems you were quite the troublemaker, my friend.”

Alec smiled softly. “You reckon? We once pissed -- we literally pissed -- on this daft girl’s pillow and covers, then we dried it so she wouldn’t notice too soon. It was priceless… And she learned not to annoy Sky again.” He chuckled heartily, somewhat contagiously, and Zevran couldn’t help but smile as well.

It sounded like a plain enough existence, this. What a blessed adolescence it would have been if his youthful rivalries had been met with urine on pillows instead of knives to the guts.

But the events of today reminded him that these mages hadn’t had an entirely idyllic life, either. The rest of the tale proved as much.

“I reckon we were just trying to retain some sense of agency and not end up dead for it, you know? There was this Templar -- Whenever he was around, Maggot would shake. Head to toes, shaking, sweating. He, uh...” Alec paused mid-way through his sentence and frowned, then scratched his own eyebrow. “Anyway. We just didn’t like him.”

“I can imagine why.” Zevran didn’t need the whole tale spelled out for him. He still remembered Carroll, back at the docks. He knew what cages like this were made of.

“So we… I mean, what can we even do? We pissed on his pillow too.” This time Alec’s laughter was less joyous and more bitter. “Useless, and not so smart.”

“Why not?”

Alec shrugged. “Over a month in solitary is hardly fun... But it was worth it.” He straightened himself and sipped his drink. “It’s just, when you’re a mage, you’re never really alone. You get all these demons to talk to. Just name it. Pride, Desire, Despair. Whatever you’re feeling, they’re nibbling on it, trying to get in and take control. The Templars just want us to give them an excuse, make their jobs easier. They expect us to just get possessed in there. Or kill ourselves -- That’s how most of us go anyway. They don’t even have to shoulder the blame.” A scoff escaped his lips.

Zevran understood what it was like to have such a meaningless existence that even your death wasn’t worth the trouble. Someone else just found a way to make you kill each other.

He said nothing, though, words caught in his throat. Anything he said would be too much, so he sipped his ale, watching Alec watch him as though he was trying to solve a puzzle.

“But whatever. It was what it was. You had to endure worse.”

Ah, yes. The unfortunate nightmare the Warden had seen in the Fade.

“That wretched dream? Only my deepest desires, yes? Nothing like a bit of rope and pain,” Zevran said with a lecherous grin. It wasn’t even entirely a lie. There was much pleasure to be found in surrender -- Something he had learned thanks to the Crows, but not with them precisely.

Alec shrugged. “You also said Crows got locked in oubliettes.”

Zevran sighed. “Yes, but they weren’t the Crows favorite form of punishment. It takes too long to yield results.” He did not want to talk about the Crows, so he shifted on his seat and bounced conversation back to the Warden. “No one has ever watched me as closely as the Templars do the mages, though. They are like jealous husbands guarding their wives’ precious chastity, no?”

“Well, to my divorce then,” Alec chuckled, standing up to get himself another round. His steps were wobbly and unsteady, and not just due to limping. He was drunk. And he was surprisingly talkative when he was drunk. “You know, Maggot always wanted to _marry_. It’s a daft dream for any mage, but she was fixated on it. Before I left here, she asked me to smuggle a letter out to a matchmaker.” He laughed. “It read more like an application for a job at a brothel.”

Zevran grinned. “Now you’ve piqued my interest.”

“I figured I would.” Alec smirked, setting his hand on Zevran’s shoulder as he stumbled back to his seat. The hand lingered, warm fingers trailing down his bicep, and then to the inside of his elbow, where no fabric obstructed the warm touch. Their meeting gazes spoke of desire. He licked his lips,  a smile blossoming on the corners.

That freckled hand moved to his thigh.

“You ever been to a Circle before?” Alec asked.

“I have been to one once, in Antiva. I was on Crow business of course.”

“Tell me it was a Templar you were there to murder.” Alec asked with a chuckle, withdrawing his hand.

Zevran let out a breath he was holding. “The Knight-Commander,” he lied for no reason at all but to see Alec’s lips stretch into a large grin. “His chambers happened to be very well-guarded. At least the Circle of Magi in my country is not in the middle of a lake.”

“Blessed Antivans.” The drunk mage raised his tankard, spilling quite a bit of precious ale.

“While I found my way around in there, I met this beautiful young apprentice. Raven dark hair and dark skin, and a beautiful pair of green eyes, though not the prettiest I’ve ever seen,” he chanced a lustful glance on the Warden’s direction, hoping the message wasn’t so subtle it’d fly over his pretty drunken head. “She was desperate for a taste of the outside world.”

“Which you granted her?”

“But of course.” Zevran agreed, almost offended. “What kind of man would I be if I had denied it the poor girl? I will have you know I am a man of morals, my friend. I assure you, she must have had the best night of her poor, imprisoned existence.”

Alec shook his head humorously. “A savior of mages, you are, Zevran Arainai. A pity you never had to kill any Templars around here. I’d have enjoyed your face thoroughly. Maker knew a new face was always welcome.”

Zevran’s lips stretched sinfully. “I cannot imagine what it must be for you in here! Always the same people!”

“Years of doing it in hidden little corners! Pantry cabinets!” He swung his tankard in the air, then leaned in closer and just about whispered. “At least no one really cares once you're a full mage. but back when we were apprentices, we had codes! For when Templars were around. _Stinky Socks_ was one. Don’t ask me why, but Templars never wash their bloody socks.”

“Oh, the horror of it,” Zevran chuckled. “No wonder your friend wanted a husband outside.”

“Ah yes. Maggot thought it was wise to let her future husband know how capable she was at her.. _Wifely_ duties.”

“And you attached a letter of recommendation, yes?”

Alec gave him a sly look and bit his bottom lip, his voice a hoarse, drunken whisper. “Perhaps.”

 _Perhaps_. Such a simple word, and yet it was more sensual than Zevran would like to admit. If only that hand returned to his thigh... But whatever happened today was Alec’s decision.

“She had these… purple-ish eyes. I bet a suitor would have found it eerie. Did you know that happens to mages? Change in eye color?” Alec asked, and Zevran wasn’t sure whether that bit of information was true or not. It did explain Morrigan’s yellow.

Was Alec’s bright, bright green a result of being a mage, or an elf?

“Humans believe us to have eerie eyes too,” Zevran mentioned idly. “Did you ever get that letter to a matchmaker?”

“I burnt it.” Alec sighed. “A man wouldn’t get her out of this place. She needed a better plan. And I had this perfect lie prepared to tell her, but I guess… Well. No need anymore.”

Silence hovered between them while Alec’s gaze lowered to the contents in his mug. His orchard eyes were dry of tears, but Zevran could see the sorrow in them. Or was that feeling brewing within himself? Who had been _Maggot_ \-- The first corpse they’re nearly tripped over when they ventured inside the Tower, or one of the mages whose faces were barely recognizable behind the mass of abominable flesh?

His ale suddenly tasted rather stale, and the wish to flee gripped at his throat. He took another gulp of his drink to ease the knot.

“I’m going to conscript Tina to get her out of here. I’m a fucking Warden. I can conscript people. And at least Eadric is fine,” Alec said, though Zevran hadn’t asked. “They had to amputate his arm, but he’ll be fine… He’ll just have a harder time wanking.”

Zevran snorted out the ale he was drinking, spilling it on the table and on himself. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he turned to Alec, watching his bony shoulders shake with laughter. Zevran coughed, chucking with him. Alec’s green eyes had been so sad, the humour had caught him by surprise.

“Well, it seems to me you two are close enough you might be able to help with that, yes?”

“Me? And that stupid fishface?” Alec knit his brows, chuckling and shaking his head. “No, no… I mean. We had something. Once, way back in the day. Not anymore. Not in a good while.” He scratched behind his ear, looking away at the cemented windows. Silence stretched for a few moments. “You know the old man you threatened to kill? Irving?”

“The senior enchanter?” Zevran asked.

“He was my mentor,” Alec explained, tapping a finger on his mug. “He thinks I see him as a father.”

“And do you? Should I have refrained from nearly cutting his throat open on your behalf?”

“No. It was… fucking badass.” Alec grinned. “I owe you. It saved Eadric’s life.”

“Glad I am to hear it.” Zevran sipped his drink. “I figured threatening a higher-up would get you what you wanted, no? Crows are well versed in the art of persuasion.”

Alec chortled, a soft smile on his lips as he turned to look at Zevran.

His gaze lingered, watching Zevran watching back, lust so obvious in his bright green eyes. He licked his lips, slowly, reaching a hand out for him.

Zevran smirked, leaning into the touch. Alec’s thumb caressed his chin, then trailed the shape of his lower lip. Zevran's breath was hot and heavy against the pad of that teasing finger, the familiar spark of arousal rushing down his spine

Alec weaved fingers in his hair, brushing back the strands. Zevran wondered if desire was as clear in his eyes as they were in the Warden's.

“My Warden,” he whispered, picturing that hand on his body, and those lips on his lips.

He needed wish no longer. The fingers in his hair gripped tighter, and Alec pulled him close just as he leaned in, the space between them shrinking until their mouths were on each other. Alec’s lips were deliciously smooth, his tongue surprisingly cold as it trailed along Zevran’s hot lips, giving him the most delicious goose bumps. His arousal strained in his pants.

Alec kissed him fiercely, with the desperation of someone who had anticipated this moment and could not get enough of it. He’d tangled freckled fingers in blonde hair, and pulled him closer, and closer still, until Zevran was only half sitting on the edge of his seat.

Zevran broke their kiss, breath heavy against the Warden’s lips as Alec beckoned him closer still -- But the only way to reduce the distance between them now was sitting on him. Message received loud and clear, Zevran threw a leg over Alec’s thighs and straddled his lap, relishing the delectable friction of his ass on an obvious bulge while Alec pulled him down for another kiss. Those cool lips magically turned hot, and the mage nibbled along his throat. He bit the skin under his earlobe, then trailed his tongue along the helix of Zevran’s ear.

Zevran let out an indecent moan. He sometimes forgot how good it was to bed another elf. “Straight for the weak spot, _mio caro_?”

“Miyo what?” Alec asked with a drunken chuckle.

“My dear.” Zevran grinned. _Dear_ was tossed around so often in Antiva it meant no more than a simple ‘ _you_ ’, but Alec didn’t know that. “ _Carissimo_ ,” he purred, watching Alec's pupils widen with unspoken delight. His bony chest heaved slowly under bronzed palms, lips curving up in a lax smile. The mage was drunk, but definitely lucid, and very much in control of his own senses as well as the dance of their bodies. His pale hands gripped at strong thighs, thumbs teasing close to Zevran’s clothed cock.

Oh, the anticipation! Zevran let out a shaky breath, letting Alec kiss where he wanted to kiss and touch where he wanted to touch. He was nothing if not an expert observer of people’s bodies, after all, and everything about Alec’s said ‘ _I am in charge_ ’ -- From the fact he’d pulled him to his lap, to the fierce look in his orchard eyes, to the firmness of his grip as he ground their hips together.

“Good?” Alec asked, hot breath against his ear.

A tingle of electricity ran down his spine. “Ah, yes,” Zevran cried out softly.

And if not for his own sharp elven ears and years of Crow training, he might have missed the sound of clanking metal.

“Stinky socks,” he warned, pulling away. Alec turned his head to acknowledge the approaching Templar -- and gently pushed Zevran off his lap.

“What are you doing here?” Said the armor-clad man. “It is past curfew.”

“Get lost.” Alec scoffed and waved his hand in the air, shooing the human man. A gesture that the Templar clearly didn’t appreciate, by the looks of it

“I realize you are a _Grey Warden_ ,” there was bitterness in his tone. “But you are still not allowed here at this hour.”

The Warden barely shrugged, getting up on his stumbling feet, holding on to his staff to support himself. Instead of obeying the Templar, however, Alec drafted himself more ale from the barrel.

“If I hadn’t been here, you would be either out of a job, or your fucking miserable life,” he hissed between his teeth. “So you can either show me some bloody gratitude, or…” He closed the distance between them until they were toe to toe. The tankard went up in the air, his wrist turning, slowly pouring the contents upon the Templar’s head. “ _Bite. My. Fucking. Arse._ ”

“You fucking-!”

Zevran unsheathed his daggers, ready to rumble, but there was no need. The ingrate Templar should have had an ounce of sense -- Why test the Grey Warden who had just cleared a demon infested tower, of all people?

The human man had barely attempted to cast a smite spell when Alec sent him flying through the dining room, unprotected head colliding hard against a wall and knocking him out.

“You can’t get one night in this place. Not one.” The Warden mumbled, limping his way out of the dining room, throwing his now empty mug on the stunned Templar’s face. Zevran watched, a crease between his eyebrows, until Alec stopped by the door and turned towards him. “Come.”

“And where are we going, _caro_?”

“Room,” Alec’s tone and wobbly steps both betrayed his intoxicated state, but Zevran wasn’t much better himself. Maybe the corridors were just dark, but the edges all looked blurry like back in the Fade. The memories of the Crow torture still plagued him, but at least he was well on his way to making the happier dream somewhat real.

They arrived at a room that hadn’t been destroyed in the attack. It was only slightly in disarray, and it was good enough for a tumble.

Alec picked a pair of cushions from the floor and threw them on the bed, then conjured fire to light up a candle and placed it over the bedside table. “Privacy,” he said, resting his staff against the wall and turning around.

“And what do we need privacy for?” Zevran narrowed his eyes, smirking coyly.

“Deciphering magic scrolls from the Blessed age, of course,” Alec scoffed, taking a step closer. “What else does anyone do in the Circle?” He unbuckled the belts that fastened Zevran’s blades to his waist, and they fell on the floor with a loud clank.

Another hot kiss followed, and Zevran held the Warden’s cheeks in his hands, looking into his lust-ridden orchard eyes. “Are you sure about this, my Warden?” he asked breathlessly.

Alec burned hot with desire. “Aren’t you?” was all he offered back. Zevran lifted his arms to allow the mage to rid him of his shirt, shivering when those pale hands landed on his chest and cast a delicious shockwave on his nipples.

“Let me think… These scrolls you have mentioned,” Zevran purred, running a finger along Alec’s waistband. “How thick… and how long, exactly, are they?” He grinned lecherously, spreading his palm and sliding it down to the front of the Warden’s pants, feeling up his dick with slow and experienced strokes. Alec inhaled deeply, brows knitting, lips pursed. “Mmm… Quite lengthy, no? I’d say _blessed_ , indeed.”

The Warden snorted. “That meant to be flattery?” he asked humorously, gipping Zevran’s wrist. He limped forward, guiding them both closer to the bed.

Zevran sat, snaking a leg around the Warden’s thighs, lying down in bed and bringing the mage with him. Alec braced himself on an elbow, kissing him while he unlaced Zevran’s pants and pulled his cock free.

“Ss, _Alec, ah~_ .” The Warden’s name escaped between a hiss and a moan. Had he ever said it out loud? Two syllables. Weird on the tongue. “Ah, _caro,_ ” he moaned again. Alec’s fingers wrapped perfectly around his length, the pad of his thumb massaging just under the head. Alec’s lips were on his throat, nibbling on his skin. Zevran wrapped his arms around bony shoulders, undoing the Warden's braid and combing his fingers through soft red strands while Alec continued to stroke him. So, so good. He closed his eyes, riding that wave of pleasure.

Alec shifted, fumbling about, freeing his own cock and grinding it on Zevran’s, wrapping a hand around both of them and stroking faster… harder...

Zevran’s thoughts fogged, back sinking deeper on the mattress while his hips buckled upwards onto that nearly desperate friction. For all his shameless moans, though, Alec muffled modest gasps on his throat, those expert strokes becoming too much, much too fast. Did he want to get them both off already?

Should he be surprised, that Alec was both quiet and a little too rushed a lover?

“Slower, _caro_ ,” Zevran pleaded breathlessly, sinking his hips down on the bed to pull his cock from his touch. “ _Piano, si? Ti prego._ ” The Antivan was entirely melodic and whimpered -- a performance for Alec’s ears. His palms rested on the mage’s still clothed chest, and he trailed his nails down to the hem of his yellow silk shirt. Such soft fabric, and beautiful color. He hadn’t ever seen the Warden in that garment before in the past two weeks… He must have gotten it from someone else in the Circle. Pretty, but Zevran wanted him in the nude. He pulled the shirt off him, and ran his palms down Alec’s scrawny pectorals. “I want to savor more of this, of you.”

Quite literally, too.

Bracing himself on an elbow, Zevran swiftly flipped them over. Alec was tall, but all bones, and it didn’t take much effort on his part to find himself straddling the mage’s lanky thighs. He leaned down to kiss him, then trailed his tongue along his collarbone and pale, freckled chest, down to his flat stomach. Sliding Alec’s cotton pants and underwear down to his thighs, Zevran wrapped fingers on his cock and licked up the length.

He circled his tongue around the head and Alec let out a little gasp, body sinking down in bed. A challenge, then? To make him moan? Zevran accepted it gladly. He wrapped his lips around the girth and slid down, swallowing nearly all of him until his nose brushed on ginger hairs.

Instead of mewling, though, Alec gripped at his hair and pulled him back up.

“Fuck, Zev,” he said. But it wasn’t the pleased, lustful kind of ‘fuck’ Zevran would have expected from a man he had just begun to blow.

Zevran was pretty confident in his ability to drive any man or woman wild with his tongue. But Alec sat up, running a hand on his forehead and combing his hair back. “I… Fuck. It’s just, shit.” He hastily pulled his pants back up. “I can't.”

“Are you… quite alright, _caro_?” Zevran asked, puzzled. “Have I done anything to upset you?”

“No.” Alec pressed palms to his own face and rubbed at his eyes, inhaling and exhaling heavily. “It’s the room, or the ale, I don’t know. It’s just…” His shoulders and arms dropped.

“You need not worry, _caro._ It is perfectly fine to stop,” he soothed, though he didn’t understand what had gone wrong. “But, if you would indulge my curiosity… Why the room? Was it yours?” He looked around, trying to figure it out on his own. It was just a room, much like the one where they had rested in the night before. The problem had to lie deeper than the room itself, or they could very well go somewhere else. They had been so close to enjoying themselves fully… When Zevran finally found a little bit of pleasure… Andraste’s tits, he would have accepted a pantry cabinet or hidden little corners.

“Not mine, no. Mine is a room over, but it’s totally wrecked. I noticed that when we were clearing the tower. And I remembered they hadn’t destroyed this one, but...” Alec scooted to the edge of the bed, turning his back to him. “It was… uh… it was my lover’s.”

Oh. That cleared something up, it did.

Who was the one person whom everyone -- Jowan, Cherry, Eadric -- had expected to find at Alec’s side? Despite all the dead in the Circle, they all had felt the need to express their sorrow for that one death in particular.

“Skyler?” Zevran asked, the often mentioned name finally fitting into a place that made sense.

Alec nodded, picking up his shirt and dressing it again. “Maker, I'm so fucking drunk. For a moment there, I… I thought…”

“You thought I was Skyler.” Zevran sighed.

Alec’s silence was an answer of its own. It wasn’t particularly flattering, but to be honest Zevran wouldn’t have minded. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done that himself -- picturing someone else at some point. Brown hair and gleaming blue eyes. A curvy body of darker skin.

That he had the gall to dream of Rinna was a sin in itself. He didn’t deserve even the sweet memory of their lovemaking. And if the Warden wished to use him to relive his lover, he might as well. This was part of what he was raised for, anyway.

But now it made for poor precedent, this failed attempt at sex… An awkward position to be in, to say the least. Let it not be said he had run out of charm, however.

“Was he -- or she -- half as handsome as I?”

“You set a high bar,” Alec chuckled, making him grin. “Will you accept it if I say _they_ were as beautiful as you?”

Zevran knew he was good-looking, but it never hurt to hear so from someone else’s lips, and even more so in a situation like this. At least it proved him wrong. Perhaps not all was lost. Things didn’t seem as… strange, as they should.

“I will accept that, yes,” Zevran smiled, getting up and fetching his clothes and daggers. “It might save my broken pride. Alas, I suppose I should make myself scarce now.”

Distracted, Alec said nothing. He lifted the mattress up, pulled out a loose piece of wood and fetched something from underneath it. He opened the armoire and started rummaging through the contents, searching for Maker knew what.

Alright then. Message received.

It annoyed Zevran... Being ignored. But perhaps it was for the best. “Good night, _mio caro_ ,” he said, and turned on his heel, going through the doorless entryway.

He stopped, leaning on the wall outside the room and reining in a bit of trembling, opening and closing his fingers. He breathed in and out silently, and her face conjured itself behind closed eyelids. That wicked half smile when she had mischief planned. Alec's dead lover invited his own in.

His heart tightened, and a sob landed in his ear. It turned into sniffling, breaking the gelid silence in those cold corridors.

Stealthily approaching the corner of the wall again, Zevran peeked into the room.

Alec was kneeling on the floor hunched over himself, sobs muffled by the piece of clothing he pressed to his own face.

Zevran swallowed, throat dry. He leaned his body forward, considering, for a brief moment…

No.

He left.

 

\---

Eadric, Laura, Skyler and Alec.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the chapter I've been promising -- Finally some smooching! XD  
> Sorry (not sorry) if it doesn't quite end as many of you (and Zev) would have wanted.  
> I still hope it was a pleasant read! Say "Collywobbles!" if you enjoyed it! <3  
> (that was another one of Alec & co's codes. y'all don't actually have to say it. i'm being dorky <3 bye)  
> Disclaimer:  
> The way Zevran deals with grief in this chapter is inspired by one of my all time favorite Zevran fics (or a collection of fics, rather) out there: [A field guide to crows: Zevran from A to Z](http://archiveofourown.org/works/318023/chapters/515714)


	16. Broken Circle 5. Stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark) and [DAfan7711](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711) for beta-reading this chapter!  
>  **Content Warnings for this chapter: explicit sexual situation; unire prank.**

**SIXTEEN**

Broken Circle 5. Stuff

 

_“What is that, mm?” Zevran asked, lacing his arm around her curvy waist and resting his chin on her shoulder, trying to take a peek at a paper she was holding. “A new contract?”_

_Rinna folded the papers, nonchalant, giving him a warning look over her shoulder. “Nothing pertaining to a certain nosey Crow.” The corner of her lips curved upwards, and she bumped her hips on him, pushing him a step away. “I thought you were watching Giuvana’s house guards.” She folded the paper and hid it in her corset._

_“Boring.” Zevran flopped down on the bed. Rinna gave him a stern look and he chuckled. “Not to worry, cielo mio. We already have their schedule, and Tali is watching. It will be an easy mark.”_

_“Don’t underestimate her. She knows her brother wants her son dead.”_

_Zevran shrugged, confident in his skill. “She won’t resist my charms, I am sure.”_

_Rinna scoffed. “Who could possibly?” She took slow steps towards him, pulling up the hem of his jerkin and scratching her fingers on his stomach. His bronzed skin throbbed where the three red lines had appeared. It stung, and Zevran loved it. He hissed, burning with lust. “Now that you’re here, maybe I’ll keep you a little longer,” she said, biting her lower lip. “Just the two of us.”_

_Lately it was always just the two of them. A pang of guilt settled in Zevran’s stomach. “Taliesen’s bitter about Henrietta, by the way.”_

_“Why? It’s not like he never gets contracts without us. He just wasn’t a good fit for that mark. He does horribly at parties.”_

_“Yes, but…” Taliesen thought she was hiding something._

_“My Zevranuccio is getting sentimental, is he? Adorable.” Rinna mocked, kicking her shoes off and climbing into bed, straddling his hips, running her hands over his chest. “Over nothing, really. Tali knows we don’t mix business with pleasure. He’ll get over it.”_

_Zevran chuckled at that, closing his eyes and relishing the warmth of her touch. “We did spend a week partying in Rialto.”_

_“Do you regret it?” There was laughter in Rinna’s voice, and she leaned down to kiss him -- Hot and passionate… And whatever argument Zevran thought to make fled his mind. He roamed his palms on her thighs. He did not regret it one bit. Not the week in Rialto, not the successful mark, not Rinnala’s lips on his skin... Better to leave the past in the past, and think about tomorrow when tomorrow came._

Tomorrow came with a loud bell that set Zevran’s heart racing and pulled him from the Fade with such abruptness that he jumped out of bed -- Or he tried, but it just so happened that there was another bed above him, and his head slammed hard on the wood of the upper bunk, a “thud” echoing in the ample bedroom.

“Braska!” He whined, flopping back onto the mattress, entirely disoriented.

A soft giggle reached his ears.

“What an assassin you make, Zevran,” Leliana tried to rein in her giggling.

“Oh, and she laughs at my misfortune,” Zevran pouted, massaging his forehead, “what a cruel temptress.”

“Tempting must have been that bunk. You went straight for a kiss.”

“Ngh,” Zevran groaned. “Speaking of kisses, perhaps a beautiful bard could kiss this better, no?” The charming, coy request was nothing but second nature. He didn’t feel flirty. He felt like crap, and it wasn’t _just_ because of the swelling bump over his eyebrow. His head was throbbing, and his stomach churned. He’d drunk too much. None of the muscle pain from the day before seemed to have eased, and his body was a stiff mess… Not to mention the _hard_ to ignore need he’d woken up with. He didn’t feel flirty, but he was painfully horny.

Fucking Warden. Or rather… _Not_ fucking the Warden had just seemed to bury his mind deep in the gutter. He knit his brows, and behind closed lids he saw flashes of that steamy dream.

What kind of filth dreamt about a woman he'd murdered?

The sort of filth that had murdered her for an organization that thought him worthless.

Untrustworthy. Worthless. Useless. The Warden had wanted a distraction last night, but Zevran wasn’t even a good enough lay. What in the Void was he good for?

“Did it hurt that much?” Leliana asked, gently, standing up from her bed and moving over to sit on the edge of his. She brushed her thumb over the bump, and Zevran flinched slightly.

The pain was nothing. The tenderness was unexpected.

“It will kill me,” he said with feigned distress. “If only I could have a kiss before I die?”

Leliana chuckled. “If you were the last man on Thedas, Zevran, then maybe.”

“You would deny a dying man his last wish? Such cruelty.”

She pulled her hand away. “We can call Alec.”

Zevran snorted. “I am not sure our dear Warden will want to kiss me today.”

“To heal you!” Leliana slapped his shoulder, then squinted her eyes at him. The corner of her lips curved upwards. “What do you mean, _today_?”

“I mean that if I try, perhaps _tomorrow_ I might succeed in getting a kiss from him.”

“Just like you succeeded in killing him,” Leliana teased, and her eyes narrowed even more. “You are hiding something.”

“Am I?” Zevran laughed. “A kiss might persuade me to hide less.”

Leliana rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She huffed, bracing on an arm and leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead, just above his eyebrow. She pulled back, and pinched his side playfully. “Now spill.”

Not quite the kiss Zevran had wanted, but it was more than he had expected. Either way, he had never intended to indulge her in a sordid tale of his latest non-conquest.

“As it happens, my dearest sister, our Grey Warden drank twice his own weight in ale last night, and if my headache is any indication, _his_ must be colossal. I doubt he would be in the mood for any kissing this fine morning. In fact, I would prepare myself for _Commander Because-I-said-so._  Ugh,” he groaned, trying to sit up. “My back is like a plank of wood right this moment.”

“Commander Because-I-said-so,” Leliana snorted.

“He did leave us to these stiff bunk beds while keeping a big proper one to himself upstairs. Such fools we, no?”

“I have a salve here somewhere,” she offered, standing up and rifling through her bag, fetching a small vial and handing it over.

Zevran rubbed some on his shoulders, arms, and thighs. Getting up, he started his stretching routine. Leliana sat down on her bed again, strapping a knife to her calf. She was dressed in her newly-acquired armor already, and seemed to have done some adjustments to it so it’d fit her better. She must have been up for a while -- Funny. Zevran was a light sleeper, yet Leliana had clearly moved about without him noticing. She was a skilled spy.

“So you and Alec were drinking.” She said. “I suppose it would help to swallow what happened here. The poor mages, and the poor Templars. Do you know if his friend survived? I had terrible nightmares, and I was hoping we could hold a prayer for th-”

Leliana was cut short by the second morning bell ringing through the corridors.

A bed over, Alistair started awake, jumping upwards and slamming his head hard onto the upper bunk. “Maker’s-!”

Zevran and Leliana cracked up.

“Ugh, you think I’d learned my lesson in the monastery,” Alistair grumbled. “Always sleep in the upper bed.”

“Top bunk kind of guy, Alistair?” Alec asked, making his presence known. “Me too.”

Oh, that much Zevran had noticed. He failed to stifle a snort, and Alec turned to look at him. His lips were curved upwards in a knowing, lecherous grin. Zevran returned one of a same kind.

“Good news. We have Kinloch Hold’s support in the Blight,” Alec told Alistair. “Or at least the mages’. Irving also lent us a pair of messenger pigeons, and I’ve sent one to Crestwood, though given how long it took us to clear the tower I’m not sure it’ll arrive on time.”

“What about the Templars?”

Alec tsked. “Greagoir is never going to pledge his Templars to a mage. Warden or not.”

“You, uh…” Alistair scratched the back of his neck, nervously. He shifted his weight on the balls of his feet. “You could have let me talk to him, maybe? I mean, wasn’t that why you wanted me to come to the tower?”

“You were asleep, Alec said matter-of-factly, sitting down on a footlocker. He had traded the silk shirt from yesterday for a cotton one, as well as the reinforced leather chestpiece he had been wearing since Zevran had ambushed them. He’d done a good job washing the blood off it. Leliana wasn’t the only one who’d been awake for a while. “You’re welcome to try and reason with him. I just don’t think it’ll work. He’s too fucking busy interrogating every single mage, even the kids, to make sure we didn’t leave any abomination or blood mage loose.”

“What about Tina?” Leliana asked.

“I told Irving I wanted her to come with us,” Alec said. “He said he’d see what he could do.”

“You want to recruit a blood mage again?” Alistair gawked. “I didn’t agree on recruiting Jowan… I don’t agree now.”

“I want to stop the Blight, Alistair. Same as you.” Alec stood up, adjusting his belt. “Anyway. Get ready. They’ve collected most of the bodies already. There will be a service in the Chapel, after breakfast. And then a pyre. I want to leave soon after.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to leaving now,” Alistair mumbled, picking up his clothes and heading to the washroom.

Alec rolled his eyes, taking a seat next to Leliana. “What do you think? About Tina?”

“You know what I think,” she told him with a soft smile. “The Maker has a path for us all. If hers is with us, then so it shall be.”

Zevran turned around, his back to the pair of them as he slid his leathers over his smallclothes.

“So you’re not scared?” Alec asked.

“We all have blood-stained hands here.” There was some melancholy in Leliana’s tone. “She will not be more dangerous than the rest of us.”

“If anything she should be scared of you.” Alec laughed. “You fought so fiercely yesterday I was impressed. I… I actually wanted to thank you… for helping so… unrestrictedly.”

“No one deserves to die for a gift they were born with.”

“Most Chantry people I’ve met thought of magic as an offense to the Maker… They say magic is to serve men, but they make _us_ the slaves. Even when we’re killed it’s our own fault. I know you find comfort in the Maker, I just...”

“There are bad people in the Chantry,” Leliana agreed. “But there are good ones too. I was lucky to be saved by one such person, once.”

“Yeah… I guess there’s you.” Alec stood up. “Zevran remembers where the dining hall is. I’ll wait for you there.”

Zevran fastened the knee pieces and laced up his boots before he turned around again. Alec was already gone.

“Why did you ignore him?” Leliana frowned.

“Ignore our dear Warden? I did no such thing.” He hadn’t _meant_ to, at least.

“Whatever happened between you, Zev?” Leliana asked. “He was staring at your back.”

Zevran rested a hand on his hip and turned his head to look at his own ass, flexing gluteal muscles. “A backside like this takes work, my dear woman. It must be appreciated. But you would know. Yours is worth looking at as well.” He winked at Leliana, who simply shook her head in reply.

As Alistair returned to the room, he excused himself to the washroom.

Five minutes later the three of them climbed up the stairs to the third floor. The corpses were all gone for good, and they walked past a handful of people on their way.

In the largest library, a pair of mages scrubbed off the blood and guts from the floors and walls while another organized messy piles of books. Two Templars were putting shelves and furniture back, and another scurried past them at the staircase. The Circle seemed back to its routine, though the sight of the dining hall wasn’t exactly cheerful.

For a place that probably accommodated a few hundred people at once, now there were only a little over twenty across the few tables, and a handful of Templars standing guard.

Alec was sitting next to his ginger friend, and other mages occupied all places surrounding him. He, Alistair and Leliana took empty seats farther away.

“One would think they train Templars to _glare_ in the monastery,” Alistair whispered, watching the Templar guards from the corner of his eyes. “The way the mages glare back it's like they’re having a stare-off.” He scoffed and turned to Zevran. “Say, I’m betting five silvers on that tall blonde mage over there. The one with the little ponytail? Looks like he's an undefeated champion -- Got trophies on his wall and everything.”

“I raise you,” Zevran offered back with a grin. “Ten on the Templar with his arms crossed.”

“Had you never been here before Alistair?” Leliana asked as she served herself some bread.

“Once. Myself and two other recruits came to witness a harrowing. If I hadn't known before then that I wasn't made for Templar life, I would have figured it out then.”

“Was there nothing you enjoyed in being a Templar? Templar to be?”

“There was always delicious cheese in the kitchen?” Alistair chuckled, cutting himself a slice of the cheese that was on the table and humming pleasantly at it. “Much better than this. Oh, and the clothes. Just look at that.” He pointed his fork to an armored Templar. “I’m a sucker for good tailoring.”

Zevran snorted. “The Grey Wardens should hire a fashion advisor, then. And a tailor.”

“Oh, Zevran. It’s nothing we can’t help with.” Leliana giggled, nudging him with her elbow.

“Right? That’s exactly what we need assassins and bards for.” Alistair said between chuckles. “The archdemon will laugh at our faces if we fight it dressed in these rags... I still can’t believe Alec traded those high fashion mage robes for pants, either. Who cares for practicality? I want to look fabulous.”

“And you don’t want to talk about Templar life,” Leliana said.

“It’s not--” Alistair’s shoulders dropped, and he let out a heavy sigh. “Well, yes... It simply wasn’t for me, Leliana. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in the Maker alright.” She gave him a gentle smile when he said that. He continued. “But everyone knew I didn’t want to be there, but no one cared what I wanted. Duncan was the first person to… actually… care.”

“The Warden Commander?” she asked.

Alistair nodded, and averted his gaze back to the food. His body slumped further, and he had a pout on his lips. He poked his cheese with the fork.

Leliana placed a supportive hand on his shoulder and squeezed. She was about to offer some comment about the Maker, no doubt, when the First Enchanter walked to the front of the dining room, where everyone could see him, and cleared his throat. Using a spell to make his voice louder, he called everyone down to the Chapel for the service.

The mages all rose immediately, walking out of the room as orderly as Zevran figured an army would -- All in lines, with calm and steady steps. The kids first, and then the older mages, and finally the Templars. Zevran would have been fine staying, and stealing silverware, but Leliana made him get up and follow them.

He thought he was doing a good job of losing them as he started lagging behind, missing a step for every two. He was about to turn around when he heard a very soft whistle.

“Psst. Zev.”

To his right, behind a bookshelf, was none other than the Warden.

Zevran frowned. “Is this an invitation to a hidden corner, my friend?”

“Sssh,” Alec pressed a finger to his own lips, then gestured with that same hand for him to hurry over. Zevran obliged, and as soon as he was in touching range, the Warden pulled him behind the bookshelf. “Quiet. Just...”

Asking no questions, Zevran stood there and waited. In about a minute or so, he heard metallic steps down the staircase. A handful of Templars, including the Knight Commander (he could tell by his voice), walked past the corridor where they were hidden.

When silence reigned again, Alec grabbed his wrist. “I need your help with something.”

“Oh?” Zevran raised an eyebrow. A lecherous grin blossomed on his face as he followed Alec up the stairs again. The boy was going as fast as his limp allowed him. “What do you need help with? Tactics? Poison recipes? Practicing the midsummer dance? You might need to wait until your knee heals.”

Alec snorted, shaking his head but saying nothing of this quest they were on. They passed the third floor straight up to the fourth, and into the corridors that led to what Zevran recalled were the Templars’ quarters. The Warden stopped in front of the very first door, pressed his ear to the wood to listen in, and then turned the handle. It creaked as it opened.

“This one’s dumb. I’m sure many will be locked, and I might need you.” Alec stepped inside, and gestured for Zevran to close the door behind them. He walked to the dresser and opened one of the drawers, pulling out comb and handkerchief and every other thing inside until he found a small pouch. He shook it, and the coin inside clinked. “A-ha.” Alec gave him a wicked grin. A fucking beautiful grin it was, too.

Zevran’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “My… Stealing from Templars? You are more cunning and ruthless than I suspected, my Warden.”

Alec rolled green eyes at him, scoffing humorously. “Says who, again? Oh, yes, the assassin who was looting trinkets from footlockers yesterday.”

“True, but as you put it… I am simply a Crow, yes? Not a mighty Grey Warden. I think I might have misjudged the lot of you some.”

“Zev?” Alec feigned short temper, still rummaging through drawers. “How about you shush and put your skills to use, eh? You’ll get a percentage of what we find… Naturally.”

“Oh, but aren’t you a man after my own heart!”

A few silvers and a pair of earrings were all they found in that room, so they moved to the next. Zevran had to lockpick the door, but it was worth it for the handful of sovereigns they discovered under one of the mattresses.

“Jackpot.” Alec emptied the pouch into his own, grinning like a cheshire cat. For all of Zevran’s doomsaying, the Warden actually looked like he was in fine spirits.

“I’ve a question, if I may?”

Alec raised an eyebrow, leading the way from that room into the next one. “Mm?”

“Well, you see… Unless you have drunk too much you cannot remember it, my friend, yesterday we were well on our way to an… interesting night, yes?”

“I remember.” Alec closed the door behind them, opening the armoire to search for valuables. “It was too good to forget... I’m sorry I stopped us.”

“You are?” Zevran’s brows creased, glancing briefly at the Warden before returning his gaze to the contents of a drawer. “I do understand that it was not the best time and place, however.”

“I don’t suppose it was.”

“So then.” Zevran pulled out a beautifully crafted leather belt and circled it around his own waist, checking if it fit. It did. He tucked it underneath his jerkin so no one would notice it. Closing the drawer, he turned and faced Alec’s back. “As the priestess so famously said to the handsome actor: What now?”

“I’m not sure.” Alec closed the armoire, and turned around, looking him up slowly -- from his toes until they were staring into each other’s eyes. Those green orchards went wide with lust.

“Allow me to make it simple for you, my Grey Warden. What comes next… is entirely up to you.” Nevermind that Zevran had been trying very hard to acquire his affection… And he still wanted it, now more than before. He had to prove himself good for _something_. “I was raised to take my pleasures where they can be found, for they do not come very often. Should you wish to carry on with what we started, I would not find it undesirable.” He leaned against the dresser, combing blonde strands back just to showcase his muscled arms. He stared back with equal amounts of want.

“What you’re saying is… You _would_ find it desirable… if I kissed you now?”

He bit his lower lip when Alec walked towards him -- Yes! Zevran nodded, fixing his gaze on thin lips and enjoying the speed with which they came closer, until they pressed against his own.

“Mmm,” Zevran moaned into the kiss, eyes closed and hands lacing around Alec’s thin waist. He shuddered when the mage’s fingers buried in his hair, and threw his head back when he started kissing down his throat. “This is very much to my liking, yes,” he chuckled, pleasure tingling on his skin. “But I shall ask nothing more of you than you are willing to give, _caro_.” He spread his thighs apart, pulling the Warden between them, flush against himself. “If the time or place is not right again--”

Alec’s snicker interrupted him. “A Templar’s room?” He tugged slightly at Zevran’s hair. “I’d love to defile it, to be honest. Say we leave it a mess?”

Zevran laughed loudly at that. “What is with your revenge schemes and bodily fluids, _mio caro_?” Not that he disliked the idea. Leaving the cleanup for someone else sounded excellent.

The only reason he didn’t lead them straight to the bed right there and then was the sound of footsteps outside.

Alec must have heard it, too, because he pulled away, quickly grabbing his staff. They waited in silence. The steps stopped right in front of the door, and judging by the sounds, the person outside fumbled their pockets for a key.

“We should--” Zevran started saying, but Alec pressed a palm to his mouth and pulled him to a corner of the room, squeezing themselves in the space between the armoire and the wall. Alec held him close, his back pressed against the mage’s chest.

They were in plain sight. There was no way they would go unnoticed. Alec’s heart beat wildly against his back. Zevran rested hands on the hilts of his daggers. But magic tickled his skin: Something soft, like a mantle, draped over their bodies. Alec’s hand didn’t move from his mouth.

The Templar walked into his room as if nothing was askew. He didn't even glance in their direction, instead picking up a pair of boots from under his bed and sitting down to trade them for the ones he was wearing. He began to undo the shoelace, slow as a drugged ram, yawning as he kicked one boot off.

Alec’s hot breath landed on the shell of his ear. The mage wrapped an arm around his stomach and pulled him closer still. Zevran craned his neck back, staring into his lust-ridden orchard eyes from up close. He gave a sly smile, swaying his hips gently, rubbing his ass on Alec. The mage licked his lips and pressed that soft, wet mouth to the skin behind his earlobe. He shivered, holding back the wish to whimper. Alec bit the tip of his ear, sliding a pale palm down his thigh and slowly pulling up his skirt, feather-light touches on his thigh.

The leather swished, and the Templar quickly turned to look at them. Except he clearly could not see them at all, for he only frowned and shrugged before returning to his boot.

Zevran eased himself against Alec’s chest. He stuck his tongue out and licked a pale finger. The Warden slid it into his mouth, and he sucked on it as silently and as sensually as he managed, as if it were the mage’s cock itself. Alec bit his neck and ground his arousal on his ass.

Maker help him, Zevran’s mind was going blank. Desire spread like wildfire, burning on his skin. Alec’s arms around him were hardly restraining, but being unable to move in order not to make any sound? It was almost as good a binding as ropes; he could do little but accept those hot kisses and sensual touches, holding every moan inside. It was so, so desperately good. He shivered with pleasure when the Warden’s hand trailed up his thigh -- The sides of his finger barely rubbing on his sack; so close to his cock, but not there. Andraste’s tits, he wanted more… Needed more.

When the Templar stood up to leave, he both anticipated and resented his departure.

The imaginary ropes were undone the moment the door closed. Zevran turned around, catching Alec’s mouth with his own and kissing him desperately. His hands went to the waistband of the Warden’s breeches, and he was just about to drop to his knees when Alec grabbed his wrists.

 _Oh, not again_ , he thought, pulling away from the kiss to survey the Warden’s face.

A wanton grin hung loosely on his lips. “Are you sure you want to miss out on our chance to steal from Greagoir?” Alec asked, voice husky. He placed a palm on Zevran’s groin, softly stroking his arousal through his leathers. “This can wait until we’re back at camp, innit?”

Zevran’s insides stirred. He relished the last of the Warden’s touch, and even the lingering ghost feeling once it was gone. He let out a soft sigh. The fucking tease!

It really didn’t help that the wanton glimmer in Alec’s eyes only aroused him more.

But to the Void if he wasn’t going to tease the Warden back. “Assuming I am not too terribly tired from all this heroic demon-killing business of yours by then.” He forced out a yawn. “It is so terribly exhausting!”

“I do have an energy-regenerating spell in my repertoire. I’ll get you up if I have to.”

“O-hoho,” Zevran laughed, the ambiguity in the mage’s words entirely delightful. "That's exactly what the priestess said to the handsome actor."

Alec chuckled. " _Now_ I get what you meant by that." He cocked his head in the direction of the door. "Come on then. The service should be ending soon.”

They headed out of the room back into the corridor. “That spell you cast, my warden," Zevran mentioned, mind still in the gutter. It had been so good. "It was quite handy, mm? How do you do it?”

“It’s like cloaking oneself with the Veil. It takes the shape of the surroundings.” Alec tried to open the door to the last room in the corridor. It was locked. “The downside is that I can’t move much, or make any sound. I haven’t mastered it yet. Can you open this?”

It took Zevran a few tries before he managed to lockpick the Knight Commander’s sturdy door. His quarters were the largest of all, and they divided to conquer. Alec ruffled through papers and books as if they were as valuable as gold, while Zevran searched for coin. He hadn’t expected to find, in a locked chest under Greagoir's bed, an actual bar of pure gold.

“By the Maker’s sweet balls,” he exclaimed, weighing it in his palm. “The army of Andraste must be quite a lucrative business, yes?”

“Is that massive gold?” Alec asked. “For real?”

“Yes… It is so shiny,” Zevran sniffed the solid piece of metal, then rubbed it against his cheek in comical exaggeration, gripping it with both hands. “It is wonderful for the skin… And for the ego. Oh, but I could buy such beautiful boots with this. And brand new leathers. Antivan silk sheets.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Alec snorted. He rifled through the armoire until he found a bag, in which he threw a few rolls of parchment and a pair of amulets. He then stretched his hand out. “Give it.”

Zevran let go of the gold bar with reluctance, a pout on his lips as he watched Alec shove it into the bag, close it and flung it over his shoulder. “I think we’re done here.”

“No pissing?” He mocked. “And I had held back the need, especially for this grand occasion.”

Alec stilled, staring at the immaculate bed, considering it. “He’ll know it was me.”

“In that case perhaps--”

“Let’s do it,” the Warden decided. “He won’t wrongly punish anyone else for the theft if he knows it was me.” Alec dropped the bag to the floor, and climbed up on Greagoir’s bed, unbuckling his belt and whipping his cock out.

Zevran happily joined in the prank, and the two of them left the room as soon as Alec had dried the sheets and pillow with his magic. They had almost left the Templars’ corridor behind when a human man walked past them, sneering as if they were scum. Zevran felt that much happier about the weight in his pouches.

To avoid another pair of guards on the second floor, Alec steered him into the largest library, ducking behind tall shelves. Or maybe he had meant to make a stop there from the start. He perused the book titles with eyes and fingers both.

“Looking for anything in particular?” Zevran asked. “I bet there are tomes here that would fetch a great price at the market.”

“Nah. The rare ones are all in Irving’s office. I’m not going to steal from him.” He pulled a book from the shelf. “I wanted this one. Here--” he placed the thin book in Zevran’s hands. “It’s a take on Queen Madrigal’s assassination. It’s fiction, of course, but that’s how I knew anything about the Crows at all. I bet it’s all bullshit… But the ending is… Fucking amazing. You don’t see that shit coming.”

“The prince and the princess live happily ever after?” Zevran jested, staring at the book with one eyebrow raised way up. Andraste’s tits. Did Alec seriously think he was in the habit of reading -- Zevran opened the book and flipped the pages until he was on the last one -- _seventy two_ pages for… leisure? He was an assassin. He fucked and drank for leisure. Nevermind the Antivan poetry he’d read here and there before. Poetry was short and full of passion. This looked boring. “Is it naughty?”

Alec was getting himself another book from a different shelf. “Yes, and no? It’s not an erotica.”

“Why did you not give me an erotica?”

“Because… They don’t have those in the library. If you want erotica you should look under the mattresses. Some mages get them from friends and family outside. They do pass from hand to hand in here, but they’re not exactly sanctified by the First Enchanter.”

“Is it easy to smuggle things inside?” Zevran wondered, keeping up with Alec as they returned to the first floor.

“If you have a rich family outside, sure,” he shrugged. “Sucks if you’re an elf, though. They even burn letters just to cut some people off the outside world, if they can. Or so I’ve heard... It’s not like an elven family would file a complaint with the bann or the teyrn, innit?” Alec pushed the door to the apprentice’s quarters, which was still empty. “But you can get things through other means. Befriend someone with a rich family, fuck a Templar, or get dirt on people who can smuggle shit -- Like Godwin. You know, that guy Alistair found in a closet? He smuggled Lyrium for some of the Templars behind Greagoir’s back… Great secret to be privy to. I can’t even take credit for finding out about it, though. Skyler did.”

Alec transferred the spoils to his own bag, organizing everything neatly. “So Godwin would get make-up for Sky. Sometimes we asked for other shit, too, but what can you even do with _stuff_ in a place like this? I never cared much about _stuff_.”

Zevran did. _Stuff_ gave him pleasure… It made him more handsome, more desirable, more of a normal person. He had managed to lie to himself that he wasn’t a slave because he could dress in fine silk and fine leather, and buy tickets to the Antivan Circle in spring and, sometimes, drink the most expensive brandy in a bar in Rialto. Whatever Zevran wanted for tomorrow, he would have today if he could, and it had always been mostly just... _Stuff_ . “And why _not_ indulge in stuff, and every other fleeting fancy, when you do not know if tomorrow will take you, mm?”

“Tomorrow can try,” Alec chuckled, standing up. Pure bravado. “But I’ve got plans beyond it. The archdemon is the only one that can take me.”

“Ah, yes… my brave and conquering hero.” Zevran smiled softly, trailing a finger along Alec’s jawline and pulling him down for an unhurried kiss.

Alec combed Zevran’s hair back, and pulled away slowly. “Speaking of heroes. I’mma check up on Eadric before we leave. Do you want to come with?”

“Mm, only if you lead the way, yes?” Zevran hummed, smirking, gesturing for Alec to leave first. As it was, following him around today had proved to be both lucrative _and_ amusing. Terrible for his aching balls, but the promise of more lingered in the air. If Alec were more the kind who enjoyed being pursued (he clearly wasn’t), Zevran would have locked the apprentice’s quarters’ door and showed him the time of his life. Alas. It would have to wait until they were out of the Circle… Away from memories of former lovers and intruding Templars.

One Templar guard stood at the door to Eadric’s room on the second floor. She greeted Alec by name.

“Ser Dunne,” Alec returned. The _cordiality_ surprised Zevran. “I heard you and Anders held the fort in the basement. Eveline got hurt?”

“Anders took good care of her. He is out of the cells now, did you see him?”

Alec nodded, then pointed to the door. “Eadric’s awake?”

“Petra’s with him.” The Templar woman knocked at the door instead of barging in, and opened it only after they’d received word from the mages inside. Eadric was in bed, and Cherry sat on an armchair next to him.

Alec walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. “Did Wynne change your bandages?”

“No.” Eadric shook his head. “She was here all night. We told her to go get some rest.”

“I am worried about her,” Petra said.

Zevran pulled a chair for himself. “This room is better than most, mm?” He mused out loud.

“It’s for visitors. Usually the dignitaries stay here.” Eadric chuckled in good nature while the Warden unwrapped the bandages around what was left of his arm -- Not much. It had been cut off a few inches below the shoulder. “If I knew it’d only take an arm to spend a few days here, I’d have cut it off earlier.”

Zevran chortled.

“Why are you worried about Wynne, Cherry?” Alec asked, picking up clean cloth and a basin of water to wash the injury. "Does it hurt?" he asked Eadric. The injured elf shook his head and the Warden cast a spell on the recovering wound.

“For her age, she fights impressively well,” Zevran mentioned.

Petra looked at him and smiled gently. “Thank you, er --?”

“Zevran.”

“Zevran. You saying that puts me at ease. It’s just that she was very weak before. There was a moment she passed out, but maybe I’m overreacting.” She turned to Alec and Eadric. “You all did the impossible.”

“Eadric did.” Alec put the cloth away and fetched new bandages from a drawer.

“Come on, is that it?” The injured elf laughed. “Is that all the praise I get from the great Warden Commander of Ferelden?”

“Interim Commander.” Alec slapped him on the side of the forehead.

“Not acceptable. I am waiting for more.” He stretched his arm out and pinched Alec’s cheek, making the Warden wince. “You can do better, shrimp face!” Alec froze his friend’s fingers. “Oy! You-- shit eating--!” Eadric cried out, melting the ice and casting a shock spell in retaliation.

Alec just about jumped backwards in bed. “Fucking!” His laughter filled the room, and Eadric’s joined it.

Zevran couldn’t help but wonder how the Warden went from that sensual, mischievous tease to this… Twelve-year-old boy… Around certain people. So soft. He wondered if he, Rinna and Taliesen used to be that obnoxious when they were around each other.

“You did good work. Now stay still so I can bandage you.” Alec scooted closer again. “I think the pyre must be soon over. We’re leaving afterwards.”

“We’ll miss you again,” Petra said. “But it’s good to know you’re alive.”

Alec pursed his lips. “I… Yeah. I would ask you to come with me if I thought you’d go.”

“A one-armed Warden?” Eadric jested. “Bet that’d be a nice nickname.”

“Even if you'd lost both you’d still a better mage than half the people in this place put together. I mean it, Eadric. I’d want you fighting Darkspawn with me.”

“I know. But I haven’t given up on _my_ dream.”

“Of joining _the Spymasters_?” Alec snorted. “I think that’ll be hard. You’re pretty lame with a lute, you know that?”

Eadric hit him with a knee. “Dumbass.”

“By the way, _First Enchanter_ Eadric,” Alec finished up the bandages and patted his friend’s leg. “I think I’m nicking my lute from this place, now that I have the chance. With your permission,” he snickered.

“Permission granted.”

“It’s not even _yours,_ Carrot.” Petra giggled.

“It’s left-handed, and it’s got my name carved on it. That makes it mine.”

“They’d had it long before you came along.” She shook her head incredulously. “What if other left-handed mages want to play it?”

“Their problem.” Alec snickered, pointing at Eadric. “The First Enchanter has granted me permission.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling. “Doofus.”

“Speaking of _actual_ First Enchanters giving me permissions… I’ve talked to Irving, and I’m going to recruit Tina.”

Eadric and Petra both went gravely silent at the same time. Zevran shifted his gaze from one to the other, noticing surprise and discomfort in their eyes.

“So you don’t know.” Petra shifted on her seat.

“What?”

Eadric sat up, and cleared his throat. “Irving and Greagoir were here a little earlier. They told me how you and Tina saved my life... It’s Blood Magic, Alec… I’m not saying it’s wrong. But… You know how this place works. They think it’s bad enough that you condone it, and that you helped Jowan escape. They wouldn’t let Tina go with you.” He sighed deeply. “They made her tranquil overnight.”

Another moment of silence passed.

“Overnight?” Alec asked curtly. “Are you sure?”

His friend nodded. “I feel guilty,” he grumbled. “She lost her life to save mine.”

“She didn’t _lose_ her life,” Petra protested. “She will adapt. You will adapt.”

Alec stood up hastily, grabbing his staff. “Cherry, fishface. If I don’t see you again, do take care of yourselves, alright?” He was serious, lips pursed. All joyous childishness gone from his body language. His good mood had plummeted. “Zevran?”

“It was a great pleasure, my friends,” Zevran smiled at the two mages, then hurried to catch up with the limping Warden -- striding angrily through the halls with an axe to grind.

“Are you perhaps in need of an assassin, _caro_? You know where I am.”

Right by his side.

Alec shook his head, and said nothing until they had reached the entry hall. The smell of smoke rose in the air, and outside, through the doors, a pyre could be seen. Many mages and Templars were congregated in the hall, watching the dead burn, amongst them Alistair and Leliana. The Orlesian bard gave him a look, as if inquiring where they’d been all this time. Zevran shrugged, still tailing the Warden as he made his way through the people until he’d reached the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander. And Wynne.

“You made her tranquil!” Alec practically shouted, not caring that everyone in the hall turned to look. "I can’t fucking believe you!”

“Alec, child, please,” Irving tried, gently.

“I conscripted her, and you said you’d see what you could do, Irving!” He flailed arms about. “But you’d already made her tranquil, hadn’t you?! Is that how much I am to trust your alliance with the Wardens? This is a Blight! I need people to fight it!”

Irving raised a palm up. “Yes, but there were mitigating--”

“Oh please, Irving. It is about time you stopped coddling him,” Greagoir interrupted, voice gruff and annoyed. “You are not allowed to conscript, Surana,” he told Alec, “as you are not Warden Commander of Ferelden. You will not be Commander of _anything_ until you have met with the Regent and he has recognized your position. We, however, are officially Knight Commander and First Enchanter of Kinloch Hold, and we’ve acted according to Chantry law in guaranteeing the safety of the Circle of Magi and of the nation.”

“The Regent is Loghain, who you know is a traitor,” Alistair came to Alec’s defense, approaching cautiously but firmly.

“Well, then you Wardens are shit out of luck,” Greagoir said. “I am still doing my job no matter who is on the throne.”

The Warden’s shoulders were tense, and his grip on his staff was so tight it might break. He breathed in through his nostrils, so deeply it was audible. And yet he said nothing.

Zevran couldn’t imagine Alec was pleased. Steam was practically coming out of his ears. They’d pulled the rug from right under his feet.

Greagoir looked triumphant. “First Enchanter Irving has agreed to lend you the mages when the time to fight the Darkspawn comes, and he will. I shall send Templars to guard them, and assist in the fight. But I advise you not to try and change how _we_ run the Circle ever again, or _you_ will be the one putting alliances in jeopardy. At any rate… You have what you came for. The sooner you leave, the better.”

“There are... Two more things,” Irving’s tone was gentle, but Alec’s glaring only intensified. “I am sending Pether as a messenger of the Circle, and I’ve given Wynne leave to accompany you.”

“What?” The Warden finally spoke, turning to look at the old woman.

“You are capable of great things, Alec,” she said, also gently. “But you have been through rough patches, and you are in need of guidance, as you had here in the Circle. If you will accept it, I would seek to help you accomplish your goals.”

“I have handled _rough patches_ well enough on my own,” Alec spat. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“No,” Wynne agreed. “You need people to fight the Blight. Is that not what you said? Would you turn an experienced Spirit Healer down out of pride?”

Even in the dim light of too few torches illuminating too many people, it was easy to notice the redness of Alec’s pale, freckled face. He huffed, breathing out, shifting his weight on his feet.

“I wouldn’t,” he grumbled. “But I’m not on a leisure stroll. We march and fight every day.”

“I suspected as much.” Wynne smiled. “I promise my old bones can still keep up.”

Alec turned to Irving. “Send me Yara as the messenger. She can fight, and I can’t look after non-fighters.”

“Agreed.” Irving nodded.

“I will collect my belongings, then, and we will be on our way,” Alec nodded, glancing at the older mages another time before turning on his heels. Zevran, Leliana and Alistair all followed him. He quickly grabbed his bag in the apprentice’s quarters, then turned to the two humans. “Wait here. We’ll be right back.”

Zevran was caught by the wrist, and pulled out of the room in a rush.

“Where are we going now?”

“You said you wanted some tomes to sell,” Alec informed, keeping a low profile as he passed by other mages and Templars. They stopped in front of a room, and he looked left and right, waiting until no one was in sight. People were far more likely to walk by now that the service was over. The Warden cast his invisibility spell on him, and he got the door open. They sneaked inside as fast as possible, and Alec went straight for a chest on the corner. He knew exactly what he was looking for.

That chest, too, was locked, and Zevran’s last pick broke inside the hole. “Shit,” he made a face. “We did open a lot of doors today... And we have raised enough coin, no? Do you truly want these tomes?”

“Yes.” Alec was angry. “Move your hand.” He conjured ice all around the padlock. “There. Now we break it.”

What had happened to the boy who wouldn’t steal from his mentor? This wasn’t about whatever was in that chest, or getting him books to sell. It was about paying Irving back.

Pulling out a dagger, Zevran whacked the pommel against the block of ice, shattering the iron padlock. The chest creaked open, and Alec pulled out every single book, throwing them into his own bag. When he was done, Zevran checked the corridor, and they rushed back downstairs to Alistair and Leliana -- only stopping at the Chapel to fetch a lute, truth to his word about nicking it.

“Sooo…. Can we go now?” Alistair asked when they returned.

“Yes,” Alec said. “Fuck this place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaannnndddd the Circle quest is done! =D =D  
> So much happened... And most of them still stand (albeit not intact)! Phew!
> 
> Can I just say Alec never had a chance? It's K.O. already.  
> And I don't mean against Greagoir (though Alec played his cards quite poorly on that one, didn't he? XD) ~ <3  
> I appreciate everyone's comments so much! Thank you for giving me feedback!! -hides face and squeals-
> 
> Thank you [Rosehip](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosehip/pseuds/Rosehip) for inspiring (through our convos and your own fic) that paragraph in which Alec is talking about smuggling things into the Circle. ( GUYS! rosehip has an amazing warden, Macsen Surana, and y'all should read their stuff! ;) click! )


	17. Through the Bannorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Rosehip](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosehip/pseuds/Rosehip) and [DAfan7711](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711) for all the help with editing this chapter!  
> Also thanks to [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark) and [ltoadreamer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ltoadreamer/pseuds/ltoadreamer) for beta-reading for me! <3 You guys are all the best!
> 
>  
> 
>  **Content Warnings for this chapter: explicit sexual situation  
> **  
>  ALSO: There is a side chapter attached to this one (the link is in the text) with the unabridged smut.  
> I posted it separately because it really doesn't affect the story and people who don't dig smut can avoid it. :3

**SEVENTEEN  
** Through the Bannorn

“You must know that murder is wrong, I assume,” Wynne asked, not half an hour after learning about Zevran’s actual _profession_ from Alistair. She had been throwing conspicuous glances in his direction from the moment the words “Antivan Crow” had left the human Warden’s lips, and it seemed she had simply waited for their conversation to die so she could poke at him.

He looked over his shoulder at Alec and Yara, lagging behind as the elven Warden refused any sort of help marching. He looked weary -- Not just because of the dark circles under his eyes, or his frail frame. Alec had puked his entire breakfast in the boat ride from the Circle Tower, and although at least two or three hours had passed, his face still looked sickly pale. The mage had downed a pair of ales in the Spoiled Princess, but cut short any conversation with everyone except Morrigan and the Tranquil that now accompanied them in their journey.

Though right now it looked more like Yara was talking to herself. Alec mutely sipped from his canteen and pushed forward with difficulty, depending on his staff for every step.

Zevran could not count on Alec to get away from this conversation.

“I'm sorry…” He turned back, feigning aloofness. Wynne was glaring. “Are you speaking to me?”

“You threatened Irving, but you never intended to kill him, did you? You didn’t like Cullen’s wish to annul the Circle any more than we did, so I assume you know murder is wrong. That is why you wish to leave your Crows. A crisis of conscience.”

Oh, but he _would_ have murdered that condescending old enchanter if Alec had wished him to -- Because he needed Alec to be just as willing to murder people for him if he wanted to get away from the Crows. Easy for hypocrites to condemn murder when they too practiced it, or worse, but hid behind layers of moral righteousness...

“Yes. That’s exactly it,” he said, sarcastically.

"Joke if you wish, but I have the feeling that deep down you regret the life you have lived.”

What part, exactly, could he possibly regret? The servitude? The abuses he’d learned to endure? The lack of appreciation, of freedom, of agency? The worthlessness? None of that, no.

Wynne did not want to understand him. She wanted to shame him. Even for a mage, whose fate had been sealed upon birth and whose life was led in a cage, she spoke of _choice_ as if he had ever been given it. She wanted to hear him say that he regretted the deaths he had dealt -- That he regretted choosing his life over theirs.

And he did. Some days, when Rinna danced on the forefront of his mind, he regretted the first and the last and every murder in between. The slit throat should have been his.

“It’s true. I regret it all.” His tone was entirely sardonic. “I do not know how I live with myself.”

“Must you be such a child?” She huffed, exasperated. “I’m trying to put your actions in the past, and have a serious conversation with you. Such petulance is uncalled for.”

He didn’t try to conceal his amusement. “I know. I’m terrible and it makes me sad. May I rest my head in your bosom? I wish to cry.” He took a step closer, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye.

Wynne frowned, shying away from him. “You can cry well away from my bosom.”

“Did Alistair tell you I am an orphan?” He clutched at his own chest. “I never knew my mother.”

She threw her palms in the air. “I give up,” she huffed in annoyance, picking up pace to catch up with Leliana, Alistair, Crookytail and Sten in the vanguard.

“Impressive,” said a velvety voice behind him. “Were I you, I would have turned her into a toad.”

Zevran let out a small laugh, missing a step and falling in pace next to Morrigan. They marched in silence for the next hour or so, and stopped when they reached a crossroads in the Imperial Highway, near which Bodhan and his boy had been camped for the past few days.

While the lot of them got something to eat, the Warden conferred with the merchant dwarf. He then fetched his camping gear from Bodahn’s cart and started pitching his tent.

“What? Why are we stopping?” Sten protested before Alec had hammered the first pole into the ground. “It is still day. We can cover another --”

“I said we’re stopping,” Alec grumbled. “It’s not up for debate.”

“Is sitting down and waiting for the Darkspawn to ambush you part of your strategy?”

“We spent two days fighting demons in Kinloch Hold. Some of us are actually exhausted.”

“Yes. You.” Sten said, scornful. Alistair let out an ‘ouch’ by Zevran side. Sten pointed at Bodhan. “The dwarf can carry you in his cart.”

“Listen here, Sten. You want to face a horde of Darkspawn on your own, be my guest. Take the south turn towards Crestwood and good luck,” Alec put the hammer down and turned to face the large qunari man. “But if you actually want to gather up the numbers first so we don’t just die like King Cailan, then shut the fuck up and set up your tent.”

Sten huffed, but accepted it.

“Commander BISS,” Leliana whispered next to Zevran, and they both stifled giggles.

“What?” Alistair asked, curious. “Commander what?”

“Commander shut up… Because-I-Said-So.”

Alistair let out a snort so loud that Alec turned to glare at them. “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” Alistair showed him his palms, as if he’d been hiding something.

“Do you need help with that tent, _caro_?” Zevran offered, already sauntering to the Warden and squatting down to assist. Alec reeked of alcohol, and did little but grumble at Zevran’s attempt at idle conversation. “You look weary, my friend,” he pointed out as they tied the canvas.

“The knee,” Alec said, gathering his belongings and throwing them inside. “And I never really slept a wink back in Kinloch Hold.” He stretched out a hand and combed a strand of blonde hair behind Zevran’s ear. “Thanks for helping, though. I just need sleep. Tell everyone not to call for me unless the world is burning.” And with that the Warden retired to his tent.

Alone.

No invitation for him to come with.

That promise of finishing what they’d started would not be fulfilled that night. Zevran decided to go about setting up his own tent and gathering deathroot and deep mushroom for new poisons.

The sky was a beautiful shade of orange when he joined the party around the campfire. Wynne and Yara chopped turnips and potatoes, and Alistair fidgeted with his sword.

“The Teyrn’s forces camped out in Chiddingfold; I told the Warden, this is all I’ve heard,” Bodahn said, shifting uncomfortably on his seat on the log. He always kept his distance from their camp when they traveled, but this time they were the ones who made camp right next to the dwarf and his son.

“And they’ve taken Battle,” Leliana added. “According to one of the gentlemen camping nearby.”

There were, in fact, several tents in the vicinity of their camp. It was a crossroads, and refugees and migrants were to be expected. “It surprises me there is no inn about,” Zevran said, taking a seat next to the Orlesian bard.

“There is,” she said. “An hour from here, but it’s full. Loghain’s soldiers have scared a lot of the farm holds in the Bannorn, and with the Darkspawn threat in the South, they’ve decided to head north to ship out, or seek refuge in West Hill.”

“It doesn’t make sense!” Alistair let out a frustrate huff. Crookytail lifted his head, whining softly in solidarity. “It’s like Loghain has turned into someone else entirely. He was a good man!”

“Greed does that to a man,” Wynne said, as if in warning. “Some will go to hideous lengths to have more power. Not everyone who is good is exempt from treading bad paths, Alistair.”

Right, wrong, good, bad: all absolutes. Wynne and Alistair could make a fucking club.

“That is why you are here, yes?” Zevran couldn’t help himself. “To impart your wisdom upon our mighty Grey Wardens? Do they get to rest their head on your bosom while you guide them on the good path? I want to walk the good path, too.”

Wynne’s eyebrows creased. “No one will rest their head on my bosom.” She sighed. “And if you must know, yes, I do believe Alec is in need of better guidance than what is available.” She gestured vaguely on his direction, and then looked over her shoulder at Morrigan’s camp far away. Her gaze then landed on Alistair. “But I see he’s not entirely devoid of good friends either.”

Zevran was about to offer another sardonic comment when Leliana placed a hand on his knee.

“What was Alec like, in the Circle?” She asked.

Wynne took a moment to think, stirring the stew. “He held himself to high standards, and had a lot of friends… And he gave Irving a few headaches with his childish pranks. The stew is good,” she told Yara, then turned back to Leliana. “I admit I was surprised to see how much he’s changed in so little time. Alec was a troublemaker, but he was calmer... More sensible. More willing to listen to Irving and me. I assume Skyler’s death must have affected him greatly.”

Alistair stood up to help Yara with filling their bowls. He gave the first two to Bodahn and Sandal. The boy screamed “enchantment,” as he always did, and the pair excused themselves to their tent farther away. Yara took their seat, and tried to pet Crookytail’s head. The mutt stood up, his widened eyes and stiff stance betraying wariness for a brief moment. When she offered him a piece of raw meat, however, the dog wagged his tail and barked amicably.

Zevran chuckled. Such an easy little whore, that mabari.

“I was there when it happened,” Alistair said, “but I think Tevinter will abolish slavery before Alec talks about Skyler’s death. Why do I always feel like I put my foot in my mouth with him? Every time I asked about her, he got angry like I’d done something wrong… I’d just asked? Are we not supposed to ask about these things?”

“Grief is difficult for some people,” Wynne soothed him. “But you are a good friend. It is healthy to mourn.”

Alistair sighed. “I was bawling my eyes out for days, and he… He never even cried.”

Just because the Warden didn’t bare his pain to everyone didn’t mean he didn’t have it. Years of torture had made Zevran more likely to pretend enjoyment than admit to pain and hurt. Maybe Alec wasn’t so dissimilar.

Zevran stood up to get himself a serving. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of person had been Alec’s lover. “What was Skyler like?” he took the opportunity to ask, his curiosity peaked.

“Friendly. Very friendly. Tall.” Alistair had a spoonful of stew. “Funny, too. Quick with a joke.”

“Were they beautiful?” Zevran asked.

Alistair nearly let his stew spill. “I… Er… I don’t know?” His cheeks turned redder. That was as clear a _yes_ as Zevran would ever get. “She, uh… She held herself like a noble.”

“That’s because they _were_ noble born.” Wynne sat down on a log opposite from Alistair. “Seeing as Alec had an issue with every other noble born human in the Circle since he was first taken in, you’d think they wouldn’t get along at all… But somehow they became best friends. And in time more than that.” She let out a sad chuckle. “Alec thinks we did not know -- Oh, the young birds believe themselves so good at hiding.”

“But it-- err… Aren’t relationships forbidden in the Circle?” Alistair asked, mouth full, cheeks red.

“Indeed,” Wynne agreed. “But sometimes we turn a blind eye. They were discreet, and both harrowed mages… And theirs was not a relationship that risked bearing children.” She looked down at her bowl, lips pursing. “Skyler was a bright mage… Kind and cunning. A good influence on Alec, always at his side. Irving and I had hoped they would not follow him to Ostagar, though. And then Duncan conscripted them... over a folly.”

“Duncan… he was a good man,” Alistair came in defense of the man. “He’d only ever meant to take one mage, and he hoped they would make a difference. He didn't recruit anyone to die in vain. Even Mahariel… She had the taint. She wouldn’t have survived either way.”

“The Dalish girl I met back is Ostagar?” Wynne asked, voice saddened. “So she met the same fate...”

Zevran was glad that the stew was good, or he would have regretted Wynne’s addition to their party twice as much as he already did. What a damper these people managed to put on perfectly good gossip. He envied Yara for choosing to sit by the Mabari -- At least she got boops from his smelly muzzle, and looked as... content, as a Tranquil could look. She had clearly disconnected from the conversation.

He finished the last of his dinner and set the bowl aside, slipping away from the campfire to find Sten sitting stoically on a rock behind all of their tents, watching the half-fallen wooden structure of a long gone watchguard tower. His face was unreadable, as always.

“Is there a reason why you are so glum, my friend?” Zevran asked, perching himself on the rock.

“Yes.”

“You can share it with your good friend Zevran, if you want. I am a great listener, so I'm told.”

“No.”

“No what, that I am not a great listener? Or that you do not want to share what ails you?”

“Exactly.”

“There were two options there!” Zevran whined, then sighed. “Ugh. Why is this camp like a thick, _moist-y_ cloud of…” what was the word again? He flailed hands in the air. “Gloom, tonight? Is it so hard to cheer up a little? I could rub your feet if you gave me a smile? A tiny little smile?”

Sten gave him a blank stare. Not even a roll of eyes, nothing. Zevran had met more expressive planks of wood.

“Oh, I know, I know!” he said, enthusiasm barely contained. “You look like you could use... some sparring, my friend! I have just eaten, which puts me slightly in disadvantage, but… I am sure it can be fun, yes?”

The qunari finally turned to face him. “Sparring? Against you?”

Zevran’s nose twitched at the disdain in Sten’s voice, but he said nothing of it. “Why, of course. I don’t see anyone else about, do you?”

Sten grunted, and returned his gaze to the watchtower. His shoulders dropped. “Fine. But I will not go easy on you, elf.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want you to, my qunari friend,” Zevran grinned wolfishly, quickly jumping to his feet and hopping off the rock. His left thigh twinged, and he realized his disadvantage was far bigger than just a heavy stomach. Sten, unlike him, had not spent two days fighting demons. Well, now it was too late to change his mind. And so what if he ended up with a broken rib?

\----

It didn’t get as far as a broken rib, but Zevran did feel the aches and pains of his foolhardy sparring session the next morning. He woke up when Yara left her and Wynne’s tent, and when Alec relit the campfire, and when Leliana joined him, and as each one of the earlier birds started their day. And yet he refused to start his, going back to that barely satisfying state of half-sleep time and time again, if only because it was more satisfying than living.

“Zev?” Alec called from outside his tent. “Washing duty is yours. Get up.”

Right. He got up, got dressed, got armed. Daggers, poisons, hair, smile. Another day to wear his boots off on the muddy Ferelden road, and put up with someone’s diatribe.

“Is it really my turn to wash?” He whined, coming out of his tent.

The sun wasn’t even fully out in the sky yet. What was wrong with these people?

“Not really.” Alec chuckled from his place around the campfire. “I lied. But come here.” He patted the empty space by his side on the log.

Zevran stretched, yawning, and then started dragging his feet towards the fire. Even before he’d sat down on the log, a delicious, rich smell wafted towards him. He inhaled deeply, not believing his own nostrils. Andraste’s tits. “Is this…?”

“Coffee, yes,” Alec said, handing him a warm mug. “Bodahn had it.”

“And we are all lucky I was here to brew it,” Leliana smiled. “Alec almost ruined the beans.”

He brought the mug to his lips, letting his eyes roll shut as he sniffed the drink. He took a tiny sip just to savor it, humming under his breath. It was black, and bitter -- No sugar to sweeten it like in Antiva. But it was coffee!

When he opened his eyes again, both redheads were watching him expectantly. Zevran’s heart skipped a beat. “Ah,” he exhaled, “feels just like home. Except, of course, for the mud. And the smell of wet dog. And the lack of sugar.”

“I added milk to mine,” Leliana smiled.

“I liked it pure. It’s bitter… I like bitter,” Alec said, holding his mug close to Zevran’s for a toast. “I feel jittery. But hey, to Antivan coffee!”

Zevran clinked his mug against Alec’s, a ridiculously large smile on his lips. This made his day much better. “It would be a pity if someone were to steal all of it for himself,” he jested.

Alec leaned closer, his palm pressed to the small of Zevran’s back. His mouth was so close Zevran could feel his breath on his ear. “In that case I’ll keep all coffee supply in my tent, then.”

Across from them, Leliana’s eyebrows went all the way up, an intrigued smile on her lips.

Zevran rested his palm on Alec’s thigh. “A challenge, mm?”

“Or something else,” Alec said. “Can’t let you drink it all before we buy some sugar on the road. It has to taste like flowers in bloom and shit, like in Antiva.” He chuckled, pulling away.

Zevran snorted, not certain what else to say. His stomach felt entirely unsteady and his heart leapt in his chest. He was sure the Warden had only found coffee by accident, or gone after it to fulfill his curiosity. But Alec’s words told him two things. One, that the coffee was, at least partly, for _his_ benefit. Which sounded absurd and like he was reading too much into it, so he focused on the other conclusion he’d arrived at: Apparently Alec would never get over the flowers in bloom.

“Speaking of road, where’s Alistair?” Alec got up and dusted off his pants. Sten was packing his tent and Morrigan had already broken her own individual camp. Wynne and Yara were talking with Bodahn and his son, so that really only left Alistair and Crookytail to join them. “You know what. We should add a pinch of salt to his coffee.”

“What?” Zevran exaggerated his indignance. “No, no, no... I am sorry, _caro_ , but I simply _cannot_ allow you to even _think_ of committing such crime against my culture!”

Alec’s shoulders dropped. “Fine,” he sighed heavily. “I’ll add it to his tea tonight. I need to wake him up anyway. I can’t discuss our destination without him.”

Alistair had taken first watch, and he was slow to get ready. It was a while before they gathered around, and the Warden pulled out his map to inform they were heading to Chiddingfold.

“Loghain’s men are stationed in the surroundings of the village. They haven’t sieged it, so I’m assuming they don’t have the men or supplies for that. The plan is to pressure Bann Telmen out, as they did in Battle.” Alec looked up at Wynne and Morrigan. “I think that even just three mages could make a big difference for the Bann.”

“And we’re more than that,” Alistair nodded.

“Given the Bann’s situation, he’s likely to believe our account of what happened in Ostagar over Loghain’s, and that’ll get us a political alliance.”

“That is a mistake,” Sten objected. “To assume they will help you back.”

“Either that or the Bannorn gets overrun by Darkspawn in less than a month.” Alec shrugged. “I think we have a better shot at counting with their men if they owe us for the help with Loghain. And with the horde at their door they’re more likely to join forces with us than… the dwarves. Orzammar is probably happy the Darkspawn are coming to the surface.”

“And we don’t know where the Dalish are,” Alistair agreed with a nod. “Bann Telmen had good relations with Eamon and Teagan.”

“Better odds for us,” Alec turned to Sten. “Unless you have a better plan, we march.”

“Very well, then,” Sten grunted, picking up his bag.

\----

Marching in the country meant worse roads and slower progress, but also interesting landscape. They passed an assortment of quaint farm holds, wheat and corn fields, a stream and a windmill next to the spot they chose for camp many hours later, when the sun had begun to set.

There were so many fennec and ram about it was pretty easy to guarantee a big meal, and since Alistair had hunted, Zevran and Alec ended up being the ones cleaning and seasoning the meat while the women went to the river to bathe.

“The last time we were near a river, _caro_ , I do not remember you bathing with us,” Zevran said as he removed the fur from a fennec. “Can I look forward to your company tonight?”

“Nah,” Alec said, struggling with a patch of fur.

Zevran studied Alec’s face, the crease of his red brows and the downturn of his lips. He really did not like open bodies of water, then? He did say Circle mages were not taught how to swim.

“The river is shallow, my friend. No more than my chest, and you are taller than I. There is no need to swim.”

“Is there any need for you to talk, right now?” Alec asked, tone curt.

Entirely uncalled for, but apparently this was a sensitive topic that raised his hackles like a cat’s. Flirting, however, was not, and Zevran knew when to back away from a conversation -- and he was sleek enough to know how to do it with charm.

“There are many ways a handsome elf like you could get me to shut up,” he purred, watching Alec’s eyes until the Warden looked into his own. He dropped his gaze to his thin lips, making his _want_ obvious to him. “As it were, I had only hoped I would be lucky enough to enjoy the sight of you with… less fabric in the way.”

A sly smile blossomed on Alec’s previously pursed lips. “I don’t think we’d have enough privacy in the river to make the best of it,” he whispered. “Not with Alistair there.”

Zevran bit his bottom lip.

Alec leaned in. Zevran felt the warmth of his breath against his ear. “Later, perhaps.”

“You are a terrible man,” Zevran jested. “Keeping me held on a leash.”

Alec pulled back again, resuming his task. “You seem to like it.”

He absolutely did. The anticipation got him giddy, even after Alec had left to Maker knew where, entrusting to Alistair the task to help Zevran season the meat and chop the vegetables. Turned out the human man was great at following instructions, and while he cut down carrots, Zevran took the opportunity to get his supplies and fix himself a tea.

“What is it you’re brewing?” Alistair asked, watching him curiously.

“Merely a mix of prophet’s laurel and peppermint, my dear friend. A very helpful brew, as it happens.”

“Oh yeah, what for? Poisoning people you have sworn loyalty to?”

“Hardly,” Zevran laughed loudly. “Unless they accidentally trip over themselves and fall into the latrines and hit their head hard enough to break their spine. It would be a death to remember.”

Alistair obviously didn’t follow. “I honestly doubt your sanity sometimes. Every time you laugh like that, actually.”

“Like this?” Zevran did it again -- his terribly forced, villainous laugh.

“Crow training must be worse than a Templar’s indeed, if they can make you batshit crazy,” Alistair mumbled, returning his attention to the vegetables.

“It helps with digestion, my friend. The tea.” Zevran explained, puffing air into his mug, sipping the brew. “Alas, I am sorry to disappoint, but I have not chosen to stab my handsome benefactor in his back yet. A failure of a Crow I am, no?”

“Riight. Yes. I’m still wondering why they sent you in the first place. You weren’t exactly the best they had, were you?” The human asked in mild amusement.

“Slander and lies! For shame, Alistair.” Zevran feigned hurt, but couldn’t not laugh. He held on to humor to deflect Alistair’s curiosity about how he’d ended up tasked with killing the Wardens. He wasn’t even remotely interested in telling him it was simply because he had been the only one suicidal enough to try.

When Wynne and Leliana returned, they offered to finish dinner so they could bathe.

Alistair and Sten were practical in their cleaning up. They washed what needed washing, and didn’t take their time to enjoy the proper chance to bathe. Unlike them, Zevran rested his elbows on the bank and lifted his feet up, giving himself that moment to relax.

The day hadn’t been so bad. He’d had coffee, Leliana had entertained him with a fun story on the road… He’d caught Alec staring often, and he’d stared back just as much, escalating that sexual tension between them. That ‘ _later_ ’ seemed to be finally nearing, and he cleaned himself properly to enjoy sex without stress, having long assumed the Warden’s preferences in bed.

His hair smelled nice once he was done washing it, and he softened his beaten, scarred skin with an Antivan body lotion he always kept in his kit. It smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, but it wasn’t overpowering.

He clipped his nails short, trimmed the tips of his hair and dried it as best as he could before braiding the sides, a hairstyle that was both fetching and practical, mostly to keep hair from falling on his face during battle. But tonight he added another set of braids for show. He put on the prettiest shirt he still had, but decided for his leather skirt instead of pants. Alec seemed to enjoy his thighs.

He didn’t care that it might look like he was trying too hard. It was never a bad thing to put effort for a partner. And he enjoyed caring for himself.

Or he used to. As he was returning lotions and scissor to his grooming kit, Zevran realized he hadn’t actually troubled himself with any of these rituals in a while. He’d trimmed his nails when they’d gotten too long, yes, but that was about it. It’d been months since the last time that body lotion had seen his skin… And not for lack of want.

He always carried the kit around, but when he bathed it was always so devoid of intent. He told himself he’d do a better job of it the next morning, and that he would groom himself to go after a mark, but for months he had put it off… And never done it. For months he’d drunk himself into a stupor and missed a mark’s carriage, or slept through his own plans to go after them.

Taliesen had killed at least four different people for him… But Zevran hadn’t bothered looking pretty for him when Taliesen came to collect his thanks and insist that he put himself together.

So why now?

He stared at that kit, unable to put his finger on it. Of course he wanted to win Alec’s favor, but… It wasn’t just that. He'd had sex with more beautiful people in this time, and hadn't groomed himself as much for them.

Perhaps the dream of freedom… The little moments in the past week he’d spent entertaining a future for himself away from the Crows. Maybe that was it. And maybe it was foolish and hopeless and he’d only end up dead in a ditch anyway, and it wouldn’t matter how soft his skin was… But for tonight he felt fine. He almost felt like himself again.

The cockiest, best assassin Antiva had seen sauntered back to camp with a gleam in his eyes.

Leliana smiled when she saw him, putting her fennec thigh down and winking at him. A pity she did not want to bed him, but he was glad she appreciated him all the same.

“Took you long enough in the river.” Alistair always spoke with his mouth full.

Even Morrigan had come to have dinner with them tonight. She and Alec were deeply engaged in some conversation about shapeshifting, as far as he could tell as he walked by the pair of mages. He did not miss the fact those orchard eyes followed him, and glanced at him several times over dinner. When Alec finished his meal and stood up, Zevran hoped it was to come sit by his side.

Instead the mage fetched his lute, and sat on the ground close to Leliana, who had herself a lute ready to be played. “So you _will_ show me what you’ve got at last,” she said, mirth in her voice.

“It’s different from your music,” Alec shrugged, tuning the instrument and strumming the chords.

His fingers danced over the neck of the lute with familiarity, pulling out a beautiful melody from the beaten down instrument. It was solemn rather than upbeat like most of Leliana’s songs, and if any words existed for his piece, he shared none, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes fixed on the lute as he played. It was soothing, and Alistair asked for another pair of Chantry melodies. Once Alec had shown what he already knew how to play, he asked Leliana to help him with the fingerwork for tavern songs he didn't yet know.

Having noticed Wynne knitting something, Zevran decided to mend one of his torn shirts as well. He sat about, sewing up the sleeve to pass the time as he waited for Alec to come to him. Their eyes sometimes met, and they grinned knowingly at each other, a promise hovering.

When Wynne excused herself to her tent, Leliana and Alec ceased their music lesson for the night, much to Alistair’s disappointment and Morrigan’s joy. The Witch yelled “at last some peace” from her own fire farther away, Sten informed he was taking Crookytail for a walk around camp to start his watch, and Leliana tried starting conversation up with Yara. Alec set his lute aside, and walked over to Zevran.

Alec sat down on the log beside him, making note of what he was doing. “You think that sewing could wait so I can take you to my tent for a while?”

“Oh?” Zevran could not resist the urge to play coy. He stopped the needlework and looked up. “Is there something in your tent that needs… assassinating? That is my specialty, or so I’m told.”

“Ah, yes,” Alec chuckled, playing along. “And you have a sharp object... It seems I’d forgotten about that.”

“Forgotten about which part?” Zevran pulled the needle from the cloth and spun it between his fingers. “Ahhh, I see. The part where I am an assassin once engaged in the task of seeking your life.” He grinned wolfishly. “Even this needle, which I could easily hide in my clothes, would be enough to kill a man… One must only know where to sink it.”

“And you certainly do.” Alec raised his eyebrows. “Though it would have been far less work if you’d let Ser Drass kill me.”

Zevran couldn’t help but grin widely at that. It was so good to know his efforts in _protecting_ Alec had not gone unnoticed or underappreciated. “I doubt I would have gotten away from that place without you, my friend. Now, however, the privacy of your tent would indeed be an excellent place to further my fiendish goals.” He scooted closer to the Warden, leaning in to whisper into his long ear, the murder jest becoming something else entirely. “How lucky you are to have eluded me so.”

“I’ve eluded you long enough,” Alec whispered back, his voice husky and sensual. “I suppose it is fair to give you another, proper shot at it... in my tent, where no one will stop you. Let’s just see who _comes,”_ he waggled his brows, “out alive, this time.”

Zevran chuckled at the terrible pun, delighted at how easily Alec was falling into pace with his ‘is it murder or is it sex’ jest... They’d come a long way since the first days on the road, when assassination jokes had raised the Warden’s hackles entirely. Alec trusted him now, and he was glad for it, too.

The mage had proved to be far more wicked and entertaining than he’d expected.

“I’d be happy to oblige, _mio caro_ ,” Zevran said, softly brushing fingers up Alec’s arm. He stared at the Warden’s lips and licked his own, eager to kiss them… to pick up right from where they’d left off. “Providing a few rules of engagement are agreed upon.” No clothes, no weapons… Just their bodies flush against each other.

The corner of Alec’s lips curved up. Such a wicked half smirk. “Zevran,” he said, leaning closer and whispering huskily against his ear. “ _I_ set the rules here.”

Fuck. Hot. So hot.

Alec licked the helix of his ear. “And the first one is -- Shush, and get in my tent already.”

Zevran hissed softly as he pulled air between his teeth. Maker… He hoped Alec would keep _that_ up. He turned to face the Warden, mirroring that wicked grin of his.

“Why, yes, _ser_ ,” he said, and didn’t miss the way Alec’s pupils went wide at the words -- Oh, he was pleased. The Warden picked his shirt (and needle and thread) from his lap, and patted his thigh, hurrying him into standing. After one last look over the campfire (Leliana was the only one watching them), Zevran obliged, relishing Alec’s palm on the small of his back as they walked the short distance to his tent.

[ [ **CHAPTER 17B:** **Is there something in your tent that needs assassinating?**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13125636) ]

The Warden flopped down next to him, and their heavy breaths filled the night.

A wolf howled in the distance, and Sten grumbled loudly outside the tent.

Zevran realized everyone had probably heard everything. He scoffed, turning his head to find Alec watching him with a grin on his lips.

“How much do you think Sten enjoyed that?”

“Is that something _you_ enjoy, caro? Being overheard? The thrill of someone else being around?” It would explain his teasing in the Templar’s room -- _With_ the Templar inside.

Alec grinned wider, which was probably a yes. “I’ll try to learn a Silencing charm for next time.” He sat up, reached for a basin and a piece of cloth. He conjured water, soaked the tip of the cloth and then returned, gently pressing it to Zevran’s stomach to wipe off the mess.

Closing his eyes, Zevran hummed at the touch of warm water, skin still tingling pleasantly from sex. “Mmm, and he cleans me up?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“Please do,” Zevran purred, relishing the bit of aftercare.

When he was done cleaning the both of them, Alec put the basin and cloth away and lay down next to Zevran. His fingers danced idle patterns on a bronzed chest, then buried themselves in blonde hair, combing back the strands. “How do you feel about a second round?”

An impossible smirk blossomed on Zevran’s lips. “I believe I have all night. Second round, third round… If you wish to put your Warden stamina to test, I am a willing subject.”

Alec snorted, toying with the tip of his ear. “I would, if we didn’t have to march early. I want to arrive in Chiddingfold before it’s too late... again.”

“Again?” Zevran wondered out loud.

“The Circle.” Alec stopped his ministrations and lay down on his back. “It didn’t really go as I had planned. And since Alistair doesn’t want to use his father’s name, I’m not quite sure I can make human nobles _want_ to follow an elven mage.”

Zevran pondered Alec’s dilemma a moment. He was no strategist himself, and he’d never been in close proximities to war. All property disputes and noblemen’s squabbles he’d been involved in had been dealt with knives to the back, all alliances were negotiated in gold, and all troops he was familiar with had been bands of hired mercenaries or pirate fleets.

This was all foreign territory, but one thing was true no matter what circumstance. People were almost always going to raise their guard if they thought you a threat.

“If you want someone’s alliance, my Warden, perhaps you need more than putting them in your debt. I have been hired to kill many a creditor when a noble or another decided they did not fancy paying the debt.” Zevran rolled to his side, resting his head on his palm and trailing a finger along Alec’s noticeable collarbone. “You might want to make sure they do not see you as a threat… Let them feel they _need_ you rather than owe you. Sell yourself as someone who can help them and protect them.”

“But that’s what I’ve been doing!” Alec huffed, becoming impassioned. “We fought for Redcliffe for Eamon! And _I_ had to do Greagoir’s job or he would have let everyone in Kinloch Hold die!”

“Yes, _caro_ , but you made him resent your involvement. Not that I fault you for it. In your place I would have taken his life. You, instead, threatened his authority. And you ended up in a show of… whose cock is bigger, yes?”

Zevran grinned, trailing his fingers down the Warden's freckled chest and flat stomach, ruffling the few ginger hairs further down.

Alec pouted, like he wanted to counter his argument, but he didn't. He let out air through his nostrils. “I guess I'll try to keep my cock in my pants around stupid ass humans then.”

“Around handsome Antivan assassins, though… I can't promise.” He caught Zevran’s hand in his, a wanton smile finding his lips as he guided it lower on his own body, wrapping bronzed fingers on his half hard cock.

Zevran stroked Alec into a full arousal, then rolled over on top of him, straddling his bony hips and diving in for a kiss so sensual that his skin burned.

“Mmm,” he moaned against those soft lips, “are you sure I cannot persuade you to break camp a little later tomorrow? We might be in for a long night.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading! I hope you've enjoyed it. <3  
> Also... MERRY CHRISTMAS! (I take kudos and comments as gifts? yeah, yeah? -waggles eyebrows-)  
> Should I keep this "smut as side chapter" thing? What do you guys think?


	18. Spices and Soaps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Easter, so ... Grab yourself a delicious bar of chocolate to munch on while you read! =D

**EIGHTEEN  
** Spices and soaps

 

Zevran recognized the rhythm of Alec’s steps long before he registered the soft palm that landed on the small of his back. “I got new bars of soap, and cloths.” The Warden rubbed at his back, and leaned closer, inhaling the aroma of frying onions, tomatoes, rosemary and -- The wonders of the odd merchant they met on the road -- _peperoncini_. “Smells good.”

“It is a pity we have no thyme, my friend. Or basil. We season every Antivan dish with a perfect blend of herbs,” he explained, swinging the spoon about and not hitting Alec with it simply because he was far too dextrous and stopped it an inch from the Warden’s freckled nose. “Alas. This shall do.”

Leliana giggled. “You sound like my mother, Zevran.” She joined them at the fire, drying her hair out with a towel. They were making the best of it while trekking along a stream. “She always used to insult her own food, say it was horrible. Whatever she said was worse was always the most delicious. I would say you are fishing for compliments.”

Zevran’s smile crooked. He looked down at the slow cooking pot, and thought back to the days in the brothel, chopping vegetables and helping Lucia or the other whores with the meals. It had been enough to learn a thing or two about cooking. Not enough for anyone to ever thank him for the effort later on, when two dozen recruits shared a tiny apartment and _someone_ had to make sure they didn’t starve. Not like the trainers cared to feed them.

So yes… Maybe he _had_ developed a habit of complaining about the kitchen, and the utensils, or whatever it was that was lacking and would explain why nobody cared to acknowledge the food.

He gave Leliana a shrug. “It does not hurt to have one’s skills praised, my dear friend.”

“I can only praise what I’ve tasted, so I hope it’ll be ready soon.” Alec squeezed his elbow and stepped away. “I’ll leave the bars in your tent.”

Zevran watched the Warden saunter away to said tent, and wondered if tonight would lend itself to a repeat of the night before. It had been fun, tumbling with him way into the dawn. When they had both been too tired and spent to go again, Alec had cast a healing spell on his sore thighs, offered him warm water to wash up, and begrudgingly agreed to break camp just a little later the next morning.

Either because he didn’t fully trust Zevran, or because he cherished his own space, Alec had seemed almost relieved that Zevran had retired to his own tent to sleep, so he had pitched it again tonight, careful not to step on Alec’s toes, or assume anything about their new arrangement.  

That soft touch Alec had set on his back didn’t mean they would have sex again, but Zevran hoped they would. It was a better pastime than shocking Alistair with tales of Antivan brothels -- He might have mocked the human warrior a little less if it weren’t so obvious that he was struggling to wrap his mind around whatever gossip Leliana had already spread about Alec and him. Or maybe they had been heard last night.

Alistair’s cheeks sure acquired a scarlet hue when Zevran handed Alec a serving of dinner, and winked at him in the process. Alec winked back, and Alistair gawked.

“Are you perhaps afflicted with a fever, my friend?” Zevran asked cheekily, resting a palm on his forehead, which in turn had him jerking backwards and nearly falling off the log.

Zevran laughed, Leliana snickered, and Alistair snatched Zevran’s bowl from his hands.

“I am in need of a quiet night of sleep. Some people were not exactly considerate last night.”

Alistair glared at Zevran, then shifted his gaze to his fellow Warden, but the passive aggressive comment escaped the elven mage entirely. Alec was much too busy taking a seat by Morrigan’s side and looking over her shoulder, trying to peek at the book on her lap.

“Maker!” Alistair exclaimed loudly enough to frighten wolves. He reached for his canteen and downed half of it at once. “Is this what food in Antiva tastes like?”

“No, no… This is an imperfect, nearly outrageous attempt, my friend. A very mild one, I would say. Too many ingredients were lacking.”

“What?” Alistair gawked. “Is it even hotter in Antiva?”

Zevran offered him the most lecherous grin. “Why, yes. _Hot_ is precisely the word I would use.”

“Of course you would.” He rolled his eyes. “Makes one wonder how you even have a tongue at all at this point. Maybe this _is_ poison after all.”

“It is not,” Yara disagreed. “My family is from Antiva. They used to spice food like this too. As far as I can remember. I had not had something like this in many years. It is very enjoyable to the palate.”

Honest as the compliment was, Zevran kind of wished it came with _some_ emotion. How cruel a fate it was, that Yara could remember, but not _feel_ the memories. He cleared his throat, turning his attention back to the Warden. He meant to ask what he thought of the food, but Alec was too engaged in conversation with the Witch.

“I had assumed you’d read it,” Morrigan said, sounding a bit suspicious.

“I skimmed... Figured out it was hers, but I can’t really say I _read_ it. It’s in Elvhen.”

“Yes. Do you not study it in that Circle of yours?”

Alec shifted uncomfortably. “Waste of time. 'Sfar as I know, not even the Dalish really speak it. What’s the point of a dead language? And your mother is _human_. It’s kind of… Weird, innit?”

Morrigan flipped a page. “Mother has quirks even I do not understand. 'Tis precisely why I had wanted to find her grimoire. ‘Tis an opportunity like no other. I am most delighted you've brought it to me.”

“Yeah,” Alec bit a mouthful of the rabbit. He chewed slowly, savoring, and for a brief moment shared a look with Zevran over the campfire. He smiled, and Zevran readied a leery comeback, but instead of praising dinner, or at least telling him whether or not he liked the spices, Alec just picked his water canteen and turned back to Morrigan. “Did she write anything on healing? I still don't know how she healed my lungs.”

“I have yet to see anything on healing,” Morrigan informed him, but offered him an unmistakable, genuine smile. Not something Zevran had seen on her often. “If I do, I shall share it with you.” Alec's smile stretched from ear to ear, and Morrigan's became foxy. “... for a suitable price.”

“A suitable price is it? I'd say you're the one whose payment is due… Bodahn offered me eleven sovereigns for that grimoire.” That smelled like a lie from a mile away, especially coming from Alec. Zevran chuckled to himself. The pair of mages was too busy with each other to notice him watching them, though.

Alec bumped his shoulder on Morrigan's. “I accept alternative compensation for the trouble, though.”

“And what reward seeks he?” She giggled, side-eyeing the Warden, her grin entirely inviting.

“For starters,” Alec said, chuckling, “not a lot of people know how to _be_ a raven -- Fun trick they don’t teach in the Circle and I wouldn’t mind a few pointers.” He leaned elbows on his knees, body entirely turned to her, eyes fixed on hers. “But seeing you _giggle_ is also kind of a reward on its own, you know that? I’ll have to stop calling you _Surligan_ if you carry on.”

Did Alec realize he was flirting with her?

“I did not _giggle_ ,” Morrigan protested, suppressing another giggle. “And your preposterous aliases matter not to me. However, I have heard a few nicknames for _you_ as of late.” She waggled her brows deviously, not refusing his presence in her personal space.

Did Alec realize she was flirting back?

Well, of course she was flirting.

The book on her lap seemed valuable enough to her that she would go as far as stringing a man along -- A man who was willing to do her bidding, and powerful enough to succeed. She wanted something, that she did. Zevran recognized the self-satisfied look in her yellowy eyes, the sort one had upon conning someone out of their hard-earned coin. Whatever Morrigan wanted out of following the Wardens about this muddy country and helping them with their quest, it wasn’t for the benefit of Thedas. And it surely wouldn’t be something that the Chantry would condone.

Then again, Alec wasn’t an example of upstanding, unstained morality.

Whose favor more valuable to acquire than the warden’s? What means more effective than to seduce him?

Zevran should know. He found himself half-way through a very similar endeavor. And starting to enjoy himself at it, too. He didn’t know what _she_ wanted from Alec -- But his own life hung on making sure _someone_ found him worth fighting the Crows for.

A bit annoyed, he pulled his water canteen, washing dinner down and turning back to Leliana and Alistair, the pair now engaged in conversation with Yara and Wynne over the state of water wells in Ferelden. Well, Alistair was mostly just silently watching the rest of them over his food, and excused himself to stand and refill his bowl.

“Does anyone want more or can I finish what’s left?” Alistair asked, looking around, and Zevran couldn’t help but give him a wolfish grin.

“Can you even handle all that Antivan hotness, my friend?” Zevran teased.

“My mouth’s pretty much numb at this point.”

Leliana giggled. "Oh Maker." Alistair probably didn't realize just what he was saying.

“Perhaps it is the poison, no?”

“I volunteer to be poisoned,” Alec said, standing up and moving over to Alistair, his empty bowl in his palm. He peeked into the pot. “Is there enough for two?”

“Three?” Yara asked, standing up as well.

Alistair nodded, handing Yara the ladle.

“I have decided to give you a vote of trust, Zevran. This is actually good after you get used to the burn.” Alistair gave him a thumbs up, and Zevran beamed with pride. “And from now on we should agree only you and Leliana are allowed to cook.” He sat down, and quickly amended. “Oh, and Wynne.”

The elderly mage frowned curiously at him. “While I appreciate your _vote of trust_ , Alistair, what makes you think my food is tasty? I have yet to prepare food here.”

“You cooked yesterday.”

“I helped Leliana. You and Zevran had seasoned the meat. It was hardly _my_ cooking.”

“Yeah, but… Grandmothers usually make the best food, don’t they? They’re supposed to give us cookies and milk. Not that we have the ingredients for cookies. And not that you’re, exactly, a grandmother, but you’re… very… er… grandmotherly. ”

“Are you implying something about my age here?” Wynne asked, almost mischievously.

And while Alistair fumbled with an answer, Alec took a seat on the ground next to Zevran, chewing on the last bits of his food. “You did not lie about Antivan food, yeah? This is better than what I’d imagined.”

“So you’d been imagining it?” Zevran’s jaw was starting to hurt from grinning. Fishing for praise did actually work with this lot of poor, taste-deprived Fereldan folk. He almost felt sorry for them.

“Oh, absolutely. In fact last night I’d dreamt you’d cooked us crab in tomato sauce? I think I read that’s a typical Antivan dish somewhere, innit? Anyway… Sadly when you put the crab in the pot it grew, until it was the size of a qunari and it ate _us_ instead. Sad. Maybe it meant something.”

For a moment, Zevran frowned at Alec, entirely unsure what to say to that. He met the boy’s orchard eyes and realized -- why, obviously -- it was a lie. Alec had to muffle his laughter with a hand, almost spilling the water he’d just gulped. Zevran snickered.

“What is so funny?” Leliana asked, standing up and collecting the dishes.

Alec waved a hand in the air. “Nevermind. You have first watch?”

Leliana nodded.

Zevran leaned closer to Alec. “Say, my handsome warden. Now that your knee has healed completely, perhaps I can steal you away for an evening?” He waggled his brows, the open interpretation entirely purposeful.

Alec offered him an intrigued smile, one eyebrow raised. “What do you have in mind?”  

“My thought is this. The two of us, alone, farther away from camp,” he kept his tone sensual. Alec’s brow went further up his forehead. “So we can engage in some friendly sparring, yes?”

“Sparring?” Alec scoffed. “The metaphorical sort?”

“The literal sort.” Zevran chuckled. “You see, I believe I can teach you a thing or two about self defense against a melee attack, caro, should you find yourself in a situation like that of the Circle again in the future.”

“I, eh…” Alec’s face fell a bit, either because he was caught off guard, or because he was disappointed Zevran’s offer hadn’t been of a sexual nature. He quickly replaced it with a cheeky grin, though. “Are you trying to recruit me for the Crows, eh?”

Zevran chuckled. “Oh, no, no -- I am sharing no Crow secrets, caro. I have angered the Crows enough as it is. I am simply offering to teach you how to wield a dagger. Anyone could teach you as much, yes? But no one would make it as fun as I.”

Alec bit his lower lip, taking a moment to think it over. He pushed himself up, and turned to Morrigan -- This time it was she who had been watching their conversation.

“I’m guessing you’ll be busy with the tome tonight?” He asked her. “So we can cancel practice?”

Morrigan looked impassive “‘Tis rather backwards to rely on one’s fists when one has magic at their fingertips. But if you so wish to waste your time, do as you will.”

“Are you saying you can’t stand the thought of not having my company to practice tonight?” Alec asked with a shit-eating grin. “Tired of living with the wolves?”

She scoffed disdainfully. “Do you not tire of being a fool?”

He chuckled. “You’re my favorite mage in the world, too.” He winked, and turned back to Zevran. “Let me just get a few things done.”

Without waiting for a response, Alec disappeared into his own tent.

Morrigan was glaring. Zevran rolled his shoulders, and rested his palms on the log on his sides, returning her intent gaze with a confident one. “I see your friendship with our handsome Grey Warden is going very well,” he said, almost teasing.

“As is yours.” Her tone was sharp.

"A-ha.” He scoffed. “Then you know?”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “I am not a fool, if you thought me one. Half of Ferelden knows, after your indiscrete tryst last night. I wonder if he is fully aware of what you are doing… Getting in the good graces of the one who decides whether you live or die. Not to mention the one who can protect you against your former comrades.”

Zevran swallowed dry, but kept a lazy smile on his lips, not betraying any irritation. “And I am supposed to believe you are here because of a... sense of patriotism, perhaps?”

“Ha!” She closed the book on her lap with a heavy thud. “Hardly that.”

“We all have our reasons for doing what we do.” Zevran straightened himself up, brushing dirt off his palms. When he looked up again, Alec was just leaving his tent, sauntering over. “Mine happen to come with a set of lovely eyes.”

Morrigan stood. “Were I you, I’d be careful not to offer everything at once. Those lovely eyes might sway from you yet.”

Was that a threat? A game to see who could better use the Warden for their own needs? Zevran was very fond of games -- And this one was rigged in his favor. He knew seduction from A to Z. Morrigan could watch from the first row of seats if she so pleased.

He made sure to wrap his arm tightly around Alec’s waist as they left main camp towards a deserted area of the field they were camping in. Alec draped his own arm over Zevran’s shoulders -- His body against his side was warm and tingly with magical energy, and Zevran wanted to just bring him down on the grass and enjoy that breeze against naked skin.

But he’d promised teaching.

“The first thing you want, caro,” he said, standing in front of Alec, “is to learn how to defend an attack -- With your staff if you have nothing else at hand.”

“Last time I tried that I ended up with a broken leg and two half staves, neither of which useful for casting.”

“Indeed.” Zevran nodded. “And I do not assume to understand how staves or magic works, my Warden, but in the Crows there were many mages who carried robust staves. I even heard of a gold plated staff once, though that might have been a rumor.” He waved his hand in the air. “Most were made of bronze or steel, yes? Plating might also work.”

Alec pursed his lips, pondering the suggestion, and tilted his head in slow acceptance. “If I can find anyone anywhere who _would_ do it. I doubt the smith back in Redcliffe would be willing to do me a solid.” He chuckled humorlessly.

Zevran chuckled with him. No. That whiny drunk would not. Despite the fact that they had, in fact, managed to get his daughter out of the caste alive. He shrugged. It didn’t matter.

“There are smiths in every city. The better question is how much it will cost you.”

“Either way, a thought for later,” Alec said, deftly swirling his staff in his hand. A pretty trick, but entirely useless in melee combat unless the point was to distract an opponent. “What now? You come at me, and I defend?”

Zevran dropped his gaze to Alec’s feet, both of which planted firmly on the ground, a bit apart, but entirely on the same line. Maker... Teaching him anything would take weeks.

“Perhaps you would like to adjust your stance first, belo?” He suggested, slowly putting a foot back, drawing Alec’s attention to his position. “You want to have balance, so when you defend a hit, you can hold yourself firmly and not fall. Take a step forward with your dominant foot.”

Alec did as he was told, putting his left foot in front of himself.

“Bend your knees just slightly, let your weight be on your hips. Now, this is crucial -- When you move in combat, you move with the balls of your feet. It gives you a better feeling of the terrain, and offers more speed. Like this.” Zevran walked forward, then backward.

“Now, you want to keep yourself attuned to anything that approaches. Luckily, we have an advantage.” Elven vision was naturally better. “Attack me with the shaft of your staff, yes? Slowly, so you can watch how I move when I dodge.”

Alec gripped at his staff, moved a step closer and flung it at him. “I see it coming from my right, so I want to move left, yes?” Zevran explained just which foot he moved first and why, drilling the movement a few times with Alec’s attacks coming from varying directions. He figured it was such simple footwork he could add in some arm movement as well, so he removed a sheath from his belt, and parried Alec’s staff away with a sheathed dagger.

“Easy, yes? Now your turn,” he straightened up, gesturing for the Warden to take his stance.

“Like this?” Alec creased his eyebrows, imitating the movement to dodge backwards.

“Yes. But you want to dodge my attack.” Zevran waved the sheathed dagger in the air. “Ready?”  

“Mhm,” the Warden nodded, though he didn’t sound confident.

Alec’s eyes registered the right direction it was coming from very early on, and hopped left to get away from the attack -- Except he completely forgot to do it quite as Zevran had shown. “No, no. The balls of your feet, caro. Let us go again.” It was almost comical, flinging the harmless dagger at him as slowly as if time had stopped. Zevran had never trained young recruits before, but he still remembered some of his own training.

Unlike his trainers, he didn’t plan on punishing Alec for a poor job. He did snicker, though, as he watched the Warden gingerly fail to apply that simple footwork once every other attempt. He had a particularly hard time holding in his laughter when Alec crossed his feet because, as it were, it seemed impossible for him not to favor his left foot every time.

“This is kind of useless,” Alec grumbled, stopping to tie the loose strands of red hair that had fallen on his face. “I thought you’d show me how to stab someone to death in three seconds or something more… immediately useful.”

“One step at a time, my warden.”

Alec rolled his beautiful eyes. “On the balls of my feet, yes?” he mimicked Zevran, and let out an uneasy chuckle. “Ugh. I feel like I’m trying to pretend I’m an Orlesian noble.” He affectedly lifted himself on his toes. “Who ez dis whuman, Teagan?”

Zevran laughed raucously, shoulders shaking. He took a step closer to Alec, reaching for his face and trailing a finger along his cheek and jawline. He hadn’t failed to notice his frustration, and hoped to ease it with a little flattery. “She must have been tricked by your beauty, belo. People -- humans especially, think beauty a trait of women. Not many are lucky enough to meet men as beautiful as you and I.”

Alec rolled his eyes harder. “That’s your excuse for humans not actually _looking_ at us?”

“Well, yes, point taken,” he shrugged. “Perhaps _she_ deemed us all servants not worth the time acknowledging, but she is dead now, so what is the point in dwelling? Besides,” his hands went to Alec’s chest, eyes fixed on his lips. “That does not change how _I_ feel about those marvelous cheekbones of yours.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he shook his head, still reluctant to accept flattery. He rested a palm on Zevran’s lips, sporting mischievous smirk. “Should I shut you up?” he asked with a chuckle, removing his palm to peck Zevran's lips instead.

Zevran grinned, hairs on his arm bristling. “A little force goes a long way, caro. But alas. We are still in the middle of training. And since you want to learn how to stab people, we can get to the part where you learn how to handle a dagger.”

He took a step back, unbuckled one of his belts and wrapped it around Alec’s slim waist, tying it with a much tighter knot than his own waist required. He attached the sheathed dagger to the belt on the left side of Alec’s hip.

“There, my Warden,” he purred, a wicked smile blossoming on his lips as his hand slid down from Alec’s stomach to his crotch, just hovering an inch over it, thumb feeling up the shape of his cock through his pants. “You are now properly equipped with a… very impressive... blade.”

Alec chuckled, leaning down, grabbing hold of Zevran’s wrist and pressing his hand more firmly against the slowly increasing bulge in his pants. “Mm, and how eager are you for me to draw my blade?” He could barely keep a straight face, saying that. His lips twitched with the wish to laugh. “When do we get to the part where it’s lodged inside flesh?”

“Ah, and he wants to go straight to the penetrating part.” Zevran waggled his eyebrows, far more successful at looking and sounding sensual. “I admit, I am aroused just from picturing _this_ blade out of its sheath.” He squeezed Alec’s cock. “But if perhaps you give your upper head the reigns for a moment -- and I know, I know, it must be truly an Andrastian task when none other than Zevran Arainai is standing so close, but if you do it... you shall remember it is the _other_ blade you want to learn how handle now.” With a quick roll of his wrist, Zevran freed himself from the Warden’s grip. He took a step backwards. “Shall we?”

“I liked where this was going a moment ago much better,” Alec protested, taking a step forward in hopes of eating up all distance between them again, his arm reached out, going for Zevran’s waist, but catching nothing but air as Zevran swiftly dodged to Alec’s right and hopped backwards, out of his reach. The Warden creased his brows, narrowing orchard eyes at him. He assessed their positions, and leapt for Zevran again, and again.

Even though he tried to rely on the long length of his legs, with each step Alec plodded forward, and each leap Zevran took backwards, the distance between the two of them increased a little bit. It could have increased more, but Zevran chose to remain close enough to give Alec the illusion that he could be reached.

“If your desire is to catch me, caro, you might want to work on your step,” Zevran pointed out with a smug smirk. “Balls of your feet.”

In the brief moment Zevran looked down at their feet, Alec made another attempt at tackling him. Zevran managed to swing away fast enough to evade him, but his fingers grazed on his arm. As Alec tried to close them around the limb, he lost balance, barely managing not to fall down.

Zevran snorted, loudly, and couldn’t keep the bubbling laughter inside. “Was that an attempt to prove my point, my Warden? A very good one, I must say,” he mocked, his chuckle becoming a loud cackle.

“That’s how we’re playing?” Alec frowned hard at him, practically pouting.

"Catch me and you can do whatever you wish with me, caro,” Zevran winked. “Careful not to land on your pretty face.” He readied himself to pounce away from yet another attack, but barely had his own foot slid an inch backwards and his entire body went numb. His muscles paralyzed exactly as they were, and that he could hear his heart still beating in his chest was the only reason he didn’t immediately panic.

Unmoving eyes still looking ahead, he watched an evil grin form on Alec’s lips.

That’s what Zevran got from trying to teach the damned boy something useful. Such a brat.

“I think you wanted to be caught so much you missed my glyph,” Alec said, sounding as cocky as he usually did. "Balls of my feet, yes?” The damned Warden actually walked over by stepping on the balls of his feet. He stood behind Zevran, and wrapped a hand around his waist, his freckled palm resting on an immobile stomach. His voice dropped low. “Didn’t you just say a little force goes a long way?”

Zevran registered the tingling of that touch on his belly, and the warmth of Alec’s breath on his skin, the Warden’s lips so close to his neck, his nose brushing on his earlobe -- His heart raced; fear and arousal mingled, traveling down his spine like a lightning bolt. _This_ wasn’t exactly what he had meant by a little force. Well, maybe it _would_ be hot, had they discussed it first. Not like this, though. He tried to breathe in, and speak, but though he knew the air was pulled and his lungs expanded, his body remained still.

Alec landed a chaste peck to his neck, and in an instant Zevran’s whole body dropped, the weight quite suddenly returned to his limbs.

He inhaled heavily, and puffed air out just to feel himself breathe.

Without much thought, Zevran reached his hand out for Alec’s hip and yanked the dagger from its sheath, turning on the balls of his feet so swiftly that in the very next second he stood behind the Warden with that very same blade pressed to his throat.

The steel waved gently when the Warden gulped. “I could freeze you now.”

“Were this not just play, your handsome throat would be _open_ by now, my friend.”

“You wouldn’t even have gotten close to me if this wasn’t just play, Zev. I could have cast any array of spells much earlier.”

“What happens when you are out of magic?”

Alec turned his face back just a tad, careful not to slash himself on the dagger pressed to his neck. He rose an eyebrow at Zevran. “What happens if Alistair walks in on us like this? I’m not sure you’ll be able to convince him that this is not what it looks like, innit?”

“You underestimate my charms,” Zevran chuckled, but lowered the weapon all the same.

As soon as he’d slid it back inside its sheath on the Warden’s hip, Alec turned around, wrapping an arm around his waist and pushing Zevran back a few steps until his back was against the tree closest to them. He languidly laced his arms on the Warden’s shoulders, tilting his head to the side and reaching out to meet Alec’s mouth with his own. He rolled his eyes shut, relishing the soft touch of lips, the warmth of that kiss slowly turning into burning flames. Their hips were flush against each other, a swinging rhythm between them that had Zevran moaning softly under his breath. Maker, he was horny.

“Have you been in your tent since dinner?” Alec asked.

Zevran sucked on his freckled throat, a silent _no_ offered with a shake of head.

Alec shivered, drawing in a shaky breath. His eyes were glossy with want. “Let’s go then.”

“I believe it will be very difficult for me to teach you any melee defense in my tent,” Zevran said coyly, mustering _some_ form of self control against his body’s desires.

“I beg to differ.” Alec’s palm slid up Zevran’s leg, pulling his leather skirt up an inch and scratching his nails on his skin. “I think a tent is just narrow enough to be the perfect place to practice.”

Zevran hummed under his breath, just about ready to give up practice. He had a raging hard-on at this point, and he doubted that, even if he tried getting them back on track again, Alec would be any less impertinent than he had been so far. It just didn’t seem like he wanted to be taught anything at all.

“Your willingness to learn is remarkable, caro,” he jested, sarcasm lacing his tone.

Alec sighed, ungluing their chests from each other. “I’m thankful, Zev, really… But I just don’t think I need this.” He rested his forehead on Zevran’s. “All these beautiful foot movements and dagger work is fit for you, but I’m a mage. And yeah, it could have served me well against Ser Drass, but I’m fighting Darkspawn here, not Templars. And Morrigan is right. Instead of wasting my time trying to learn something else entirely, what I need is to make sure I can resist a mana drain spell -- In the oft change an Emissary can cast it. And that’s something Morrigan can help me with.”

Zevran gulped. Right. Of course. The Wilds witch had far more useful knowledge to share with her fellow mage than him. He couldn’t best her at that. “I see… Do not let me stop you, then, my friend,” he said, trying not to get personally offended by the refusal. “Perhaps you can still practice some magic with our lovely Witch tonight.”

“Or…” Alec tugged his hips closer again. “We can go to your tent, and go for the metaphorical sparring tonight.”

Yes. Sex. Sex was fun, and he was good at it, after all. Why in the void try to offer anything else when they could be enjoying themselves? He closed his eyes, lacing his arms around Alec’s shoulders and grinding shamelessly against him. “You have me convinced,” he purred against warm lips. Their kiss deepened, and by the time they did walk over to his tent, they were both thoroughly desperate for more.

He didn’t remember whose clothes were taken off whose body first -- probably his. He’d been much too busy enjoying all those fun uses of shock spells, and then trying not to buckle himself into Alec’s marvelous mouth. He returned in kind, and straddled the Warden’s lanky hips until he was groaning under his breath. Zevran rode him six ways from Sunday, and held his own climax just up until Alec was filling him up with his load.

It was several moments before his heart stopped throbbing… And even more before he made any move to clean himself up. His tent smelled distinctly like jizz and sweat, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t like it, but he did _not_ like the mess between his thighs. He hated cleaning up.

Like the night before, Alec was the one who got on top of that. He looked around for a basin and conjured water inside it, then glanced at him over his shoulder, a lazy smile on his lips. “Have you checked the soaps I bought you yet?

“Tomorrow,” Zevran grumbled, propping on an elbow to fetch a piece of cloth and drop it in the basin for Alec to use. He flopped back down on the furs then. “You do not need soap, do you?”

Alec wrung the cloth and put the basin down to clean the cum off his stomach. “Maybe _you_ do.”

“Are you trying to imply I smell foul, my Warden?”

Alec snorted, and leaned down on top of Zevran, kissing his jaw and then sniffing his hair. “Ew. Maker.” He tucked his head under Zevran’s arm then, and licked his armpit. “Ugh, disgusting. Is lack of hygiene an Antivan thing? I knew the Dalish were bad at it, but the Antivans?”

“Oh, and he makes my patriotic heart bleed. Such slander to my homeland,” Zevran chuckled, playfully pushing Alec away. “I will have you know we are in the habit of bathing daily in Antiva, my friend. Besides, we have scented oils, which do not smell like mud and wet dog like you Fereldans do.”

“They smell like--”

Zevran could bet a sovereign he was going to say:

“Flowers in bloom.”

“Flowers in bloom, yes,” Zevran said in unison.

Alec planted a kiss on his upper lip, then sat up. He washed the cloth and wrung it again, then passed it to him. Zevran cleaned himself lazily, wanting nothing but to lie back down and sink into the furs. His eyelids were heavy and limbs soft. He stretched languidly to ease his muscles, watching as Alec fumbled around for his clothes. Every knot of his spine jutted out, and Zevran caught himself thinking of a fish. He let out a soft chuckle, reaching for the Warden and trailing a finger up his back, following the trail of his spine.

The Warden found his smalls and put them on. “But really, I think you’ll want to check out the soaps I got you. It’s not flowers in bloom scent, or leather, but...” He shrugged, shifting around to dress his trousers as well.

“Nghh,” Zevran groaned lazily.

Alec slapped his thigh. “Do it.”

“If you insist.” Zevran rolled on his stomach, searching for the said bag of soaps. “Where are--” Finding it neatly placed beside his bag, he reached for it and dragged it closer, untying the lace and checking the contents. It wasn’t soap, though. Well, there were soap bars, too, but lying atop them was a solid bar of pure gold.

 _A solid bar of pure gold._ He creased his brows. “Is this the one we stole in the Circle?”

“Yeah,” Alec said, a bit of humor in his tone. “I mean. I wish I could have made it reproduce, but nah… It’s that one we _found_ in the Circle.”

Was that a gift? Was it payment? The frown hadn’t left Zevran’s face, though he laughed. “Very generous of you, my Warden, but as it happens I only remove my clothes on a strictly amateur basis,” he joked. “A talented amateur, but an amateur nonetheless. There’s no need to--”

“Don’t be fucking daft,” Alec grumbled, hastily putting his shirt on.

Zevran thought it was a funny joke, given he was still stark naked right after sex, but Alec clearly did not share his sense of humour on the matter. His face fell, the smile gone from his thin lips.

His tone was sharp, hackles raised. “It’s got nothing to do with that. I’m not paying you for sex, for fuck’s sake. I’d figured that part was simply because we both wanted it.”

Was it even that daft? It seemed logical to him.

“It was a jest, yes?” Zevran sighed, sitting up as well. “But the question is inevitable, caro. What _are_ you paying me for? There are forty or fifty sovereigns here, easily.” Suddenly Zevran didn’t think that the work he’d done for the Wardens so far was worth that much gold. Nor did he think Alec had that much to spare, given the cost of his quest. “You are not paying every other person in your party such a hefty amount, I would imagine.”

“No, and I’m hoping you won’t tell them. And then again, most of them joined because they wanted to.” Alec rolled his socks up his calves and turned around to face him. “We have a lot to lose to the Blight and to Loghain. But if we can fix this shit, we might just have a place to go back to afterwards. You said it yourself you can’t go back to Antiva.”

Zevran blinked, his insides turning a bit. He said nothing.

“I just figured…” Alec shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s pure gold. It’s valuable anywhere in Thedas. Maybe that’ll give you a head start against the Crows to… I don’t know. Go anywhere.”

Another moment of silence hovered between them, and Zevran wondered if Alec could hear the drumming of his heart. A head start against the Crows? Where would he even go?

Alec scoffed softly. “If you don’t just spend everything on boots, that is.”

A smile blossomed on Zevran’s lips and he snatched the levity of that comment with both hands. “Ah, belo, but what is even the point of coin if not to spend it on pretty and shiny things?”

“I’d say the point is spending it all on books.” Alec chuckled. “But it’s your gold now so it’s up to you.” He reached for his boots, but Zevran grabbed his arm. He scooted closer, cupping Alec’s freckled cheeks with both hands and giving him a languid, lazy kiss.

“What about your other expenses? And making your staff sturdier?” Zevran couldn’t believe he was working against himself here.

Alec shrugged. “We had a very profitable visit to Kinloch Hold, innit? And I have those tomes to sell once I’m done reading them. Really interesting stuff. Irving actually had a book on spells that are pretty much blood magic? It’s not an in-your-face book on blood magic, but it kind of seems to follow the same principles?” he digressed for a moment. “Anyway.” Alec pecked him on the corner of his lips. “This is your share of the spoils, I guess. I did promise, and you’ve earned it.”

“Thank you, caro. I shall treasure my soon-to-be-acquired boots deeply,” Zevran said. “However. Can’t I persuade you to stay for another round?”

Alec nuzzled his nose, and kissed his jaw. “Second watch is mine. I should sleep.”

He pulled away and grabbed his boots to make his point poignant -- He was not going to stay any longer.

Zevran did not insist. “Why, yes, you must get your beauty sleep.”

“Or something like that, before my brain stops working.” Alec donned his boots while Zevran searched for his undergarments. “Chances are I’ll just roll around anyway, but I’ve got to try. I’ll read something on Entropy. Entropy is boring.”

“Trouble sleeping? Worrying over the Blight?” Zevran asked, putting on his smalls.

“I’m not worrying over an Entropy test, that’s for sure,” Alec let out a meek laugh. “Good night, Zev.” He left him with one more kiss before he grabbed his staff and departed.

With him went the wisp that Zevran hadn’t even realized had been illuminating his tent.

Even in the dark, he could still easily make out the bar of gold in his bag of soaps. He pulled one out and inhaled the aroma of embrium.

Where would he go?

He’d think about that tomorrow. He stashed the soap and gold in the bottom of his traveling bag, unrolled his second set of furs and snuggled up to sleep.

* * *

 

comic illustrated by [@lynngo-art](https://lynngo-art.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after a very long writing hiatus... A wild chapter appears! I don't even know what to say -- For a while there I didn't think I'd be able to get back to writing and I was really sad because I love being able to share this fanfic with... whoever is out there on the other side of the screen. Please picture me coming through the screen and giving you a big hug (if you're comfortable with hugs, yeah?)! I know at least two or three of you guys still remember this thing exists, so thank you!!! <3 
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts on the chapter, as always -- Comments are like peanut M&M's. Delicious, crunchy, colorful. xD (yes, I am being a nervouswreck dork again. someone please, PLEASE, just take the computer away from me) 
> 
> Huge thanks to [DAfan7711](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711) and [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark) for reading this chapter through and always helping me out with my writing! You guys' support means the world to me! Glubglub!


	19. Loghain's Push

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, huge thanks to [DAfan7711](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711) and [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark) for beta-ing my work!  
>  **content warning!!!** canon typical violence, death, graphic assassinations, suicide wish

**NINETEEN  
** Loghain’s push

The sun was still up when they realized they’d traveled as far as they could go without giving themselves away to Loghain’s army. The smoke coming from one, maybe two, miles away was enough to estimate their location, which wasn’t far from Chiddingfold.

The castle, while not an ostentatious palace like Zevran knew from back home, was still quite sizable and sturdy, perched atop the hill and visible from afar. A vantage point for a fortress, which likely explained why Loghain desired to seize it for himself. Well, that, and the numerous farmholds surrounding Chiddingfold that were probably farmed by Bann Telmen’s vassals.

They knew that Loghain’s army was still camped outside town, but that wasn’t enough knowledge to make any moves. Not if they wanted to make a difference for Bann Telmen’s side. And whether the Bann would even be a valuable ally for the wardens was still unclear, but now they were here, and the warden did not look like he planned on striding past or turning back.  

“We need to learn more, and to stay unnoticed,” Alec said. “Bodahn, I’d like you to sell whatever wares you have to Loghain’s soldiers.”

The dwarf jumped when he heard the order. “I-- Er-- With all due respect, Warden. My boy and I do not want any trouble with the regent’s men.”

“Enchantment!”

Bodahn pointed a thumb towards the makeshift road they’d come from. “We can camp a few miles out and wait for the lot of you to come back like we did in the Circle. It’s not a problem for me and my boy.”

“It won’t be dangerous, Bodahn, I promise,” Alec insisted. “I’ll pay you well, and I’m sending Sten with you. He’ll pose as a hired Tal-Vashoth bodyguard. You’re just a merchant passing by, and all you must do is offer to sell whatever you have, and stay around long enough for Sten to recon the army.” He craned his neck back to look at the Qunari. “You can do that, yeah?”

Sten nodded. “Yes.” A man of so many words.

“Bodahn?”

The dwarf gave a heavy sight. “Well, alright…”

“Meanwhile Morrigan’s going into the Castle,” Alec explained. “She agreed to be the messenger so we can communicate with Bann Telmen.” The two mages had marched side by side most of the way, and must have devised this plan earlier.

“The witch who’s never lived in civilization, the diplomat? Am I the only one who thinks that might just… you know… backfire? Big time?” Alistair asked, his voice becoming more of a whisper at the end. “She’s not exactly… friendly.”

Morrigan glared daggers at Alistair. “I can be friendly when I desire to. Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so.”

“You’re going to--”

“Listen, Alistair,” Alec interrupted him. “Say we send a bird with a message in its talons, chances are the army will shoot it to intercept it. Morrigan can sneak in and negotiate, which is better for us either way. So she’s doing it. End of story.”

Zevran hadn’t even spared a thought to whatever they’d find or do once they arrived, but Alec knew exactly where to start. It reminded Zevran of… He shook his head. It was stupid to try and find _her_ in Alec’s wits or Leliana’s eyes.

Leliana was concerned. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

Morrigan shrugged. “I do not frighten like little children.”

Alec smiled foolishly as he handed Morrigan a rolled parchment. “Fly safely.”

In an instant, the witch metamorphosed into a raven and flew off into the evening, disappearing amidst the treetops. Bodahn, his son and Sten left to accomplish their own task, and the rest of them retreated a mile into the Bannorn to avoid patrolling soldiers. They could not make camp or light fire, so they ate fruits and cheese and sat about in the dullest silence ever. Zevran stretched and sparred with Yara to distract himself.

The sun was down when Sten came back with news. He recreated the layout of Loghain’s army camp on a piece of parchment, using a piece of charcoal.

Sten had a keen eye for artistic detail, and his sketch didn’t lack finesse. A most unexpected thing to discover about the stoic qunari. Zevran liked it.

“So they sieged the town after all.” Alistair scratched his chin.

“Say we attack by surprise from behind?” Alec said, pointing at the map. “We have magic.”

“You would need a miracle, not magic,” Sten said. “Unless you have a death wish.”

“Fuck,” Alec grumbled, as if his plans had all gone down the drain.

“Why hasn’t Loghain attacked yet?” Alistair asked.

“He wants the Bann to surrender without fighting,” Alec reasoned.  

Wings flapped above them and in an instant Morrigan was back.

“The stubborn fools do not intend to surrender,” she chimed in mid-conversation. Everyone looked at her expectantly, and she dusted off her skirt before adding: “Neither did they believe me to speak on the Grey Wardens’ behalf at first, but there is a Rivaini seer amongst them.”

“A seer?” Alec asked.

“Yes. She scryed you using your letter,” Morrigan explained. “The Bann recognized your faces, and took my word thereon.”

“Recognized us how? I know we’re outlawed, but we’re not…” Alistair gesticulated. “Duncan.”

Morrigan shrugged.

“Your Loghain had portraits of you both done. Perhaps he has been showing them to more than just hired assassins, no?” Zevran suggested, and chuckled, remembering the pictures. “Though I must say, the portrait did not do your strong jawline justice, my dear Alistair.”

“How dare he misportray my jawline, eh? That’s a worse crime than betraying King Cailan in Ostagar, Zevran, thank you,” Alistair said, heavy with sarcasm. “You two are chock full of useful knowledge.” He rolled his eyes, then turned back to Morrigan. “So the Bann knows we’re here and that we’re wardens, that much is peanuts. Did you _actually_ bother asking them if they’re willing to help?”

“No, Alistair. I offered them your head on a silver plate for half a copper.”

“What. There’s no such thing as half a copper.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “That’s how much ‘twould take to sway me to do away with you.” She pulled a rolled parchment from her pouch and handed it to Alec, her tone becoming less sour as she addressed him. “The Bann’s reply. Neither he nor the Teyrn believes he has enough fighting men to offer the Wardens against the Darkspawn.”

Alistair’s scoffed. “The Teyrn? What teyrn? Do you even know a thing about Fereldan politics? There are only two teyrns in Ferelden. One is Loghain and the other is Bryce, who’s dead.”

“‘Tis endearing how you think you can goad me.” She shrugged. “The Teyrn of Highever.”

“But the Couslands were murdered!” Alistair argued. “By their servants! I mean, Teagan doesn’t believe it. The servants part, not the murder part. The murder part is probably true... And Fergus had all of his army in Ostagar, so really... that narrows the options down.”

Sten grumbled. “This looks like a stalemate. If they have nothing to offer, we should leave.”

“But they do,” Alec corrected him, lifting his gaze from the letter. “It says here that Chiddingfold has within its walls enough crops to sustain Ferelden for a couple of years. The Bann doesn’t want Loghain to steal it, so he’s threatened to set the harvest on fire as soon as the army attacks. But he says that if we help push Loghain’s men back, Chiddingfold will prioritize food distribution to the Grey Wardens and its armies for the next two years.”

“Two years?” Zevran asked in surprise.

“The fourth blight lasted twelve.” Alec rolled the parchment. “We need food as much as we need fighting men. We have to do this -- help him, I mean.”

“How?” Zevran asked, and swallowed dry. Suddenly this -- all of it -- sounded like too much. Twelve years of Blight? Twelve years of tents and hard floors and Darkspawn? Perhaps it was easier to die now. “I do not suppose we can simply saunter into their camp and assassinate their general, can we?

Alec held his gaze, long and seriously, considering the suggestion.

“That’s not a bad idea. There were a lot of elven servants in Ostagar. We could probably walk right into their camp, you and I. Killing the general -- Is that something you could actually pull off?”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight, yes.”

With no knowledge whatsoever on the target? No time to memorize the watch rotations or the mark’s interests? Blindly walking into an army camp and waltzing into the general’s tent? It was practically a suicide mission.

Zevran grinned, leering. “If you would have my back, my handsome warden, certainly I could try.”

Alec chuckled, not missing the innuendo or the wink.

“I’d have your back any day.” He winked back.

Morrigan let out a disgusted grunt.

Alec fetched Sten’s map of Loghain’s camp. “Okay. So we’re doing this. Sten -- Got any idea where the big-balled man’s tent may be?”

“Didn’t you just say they had our portraits done?” Alistair asked Zevran. “They’ll recognize Alec.”

“Not if I’m not with you, they won’t,” Alec argued. “For all I know they’ll think I’m a woman.”

Zevran snickered. That much he was right about. It was another one of the many reasons the Crows liked elven recruits. Infiltrating was that much easier.

“Walking into their camp is all fine and well, caro, and I do not assume to understand battlefield, but I highly doubt killing their general will be enough to tip the balance to our side, is it not so?”

“No, I know. We need to do more damage,” Alec agreed. “Maybe poison the rations?”

“Too many soldiers,” Leliana said. “If you tamper the food with enough poison to kill, they'll discover it after the first couple of deaths. And if the plan is to make them sick, it’d take over a week.”

“And we don’t have that much poison,” Zevran added.

“Set fire to the encampment.” Every single head turned to look at Yara, startled by her monotone voice.

Alec’s eyes gleamed with the suggestion. “Shit, Yara! That’s brilliant.” He turned to Wynne. “Did you bring any fire bombs and balms from the Circle?”

“A handful,” she said. “But are you certain that this is the best plan of action? It might be too dangerous.”

“Exactly!” Alistair looked relieved to have someone on his side. “How is a fire even going to beat an army? It’ll wake everyone up and they’ll put it out -- And probably kill you while at it.”

“You’re right, but we don’t want to beat their army, ourselves.“ Alec turned to Morrigan. “You said there is a seer in the castle?”

The witch nodded.

“And she can see what we’re doing as we are doing it?”

She nodded again.

“Then all we need to do is create the perfect opportunity -- The perfect chaos,” Alec said, voice resolute; even a bit excited. “I’m assuming Bann Telmen’s men have been assembled since Loghain’s men made camp here, so Morrigan just has to go back inside and make sure they’re ready to march tonight. Zevran and I will go in, and we’ll distract and disorganize them. But Bann Telmen has to attack as soon as the fire starts. I need a yes or no as soon as possible.”

“‘Tis a bold plan. You better not waste my time playing messenger.” Morrigan was gone as soon as the words were out.

Alec began to undress. He took off his leather jerkin, belt and boots, and Zevan followed suit. He unfastened the harness that kept his daggers on his back, traded the leather skirt for pants, and pouted when the boots came off. Neither he nor Alec had simple, servant shoes, so barefoot would do.

“Do you perhaps have a spare shirt, my dear Alistair?” Zevran asked, realizing his was in far too good condition to pass as a servant’s in an army camp. And more importantly, it was well-fitting enough that anyone could see his muscles underneath the sleeves. Servants weren’t usually sculpted like him.

Despite begrudging the plan, Alistair pulled a shirt from his bag and handed it over. It smelled heavily of sweat, and the hems and armpits were dark yellow from lack of consistent washing. It was a few sizes bigger, and hung on his frame almost like a dress. Zevran had to tie a second belt around his waist. The sheer size of it not only concealed his trained form, but four of the six knives he had on himself.

Zevran rifled through his bag of poisons for whatever he could use.

“Got any grenades -- smoke, confusion?" Alec asked, squatting next to him. He had draped a shawl over his face and wrapped it around his neck. It covered most of his long ginger hair, but two holes in the fabric had his long ears popping out. “Anything we can throw to add to the chaos of the fire will help.”

Zevran handed Alec a handful of acid flasks, and fetched some thread to attach his vials of crow poison and fleshrot to the belt of his pants, under the shirt.

Killing a general in his own camp was just the sort of job Rinna and Taliesen would have been excited about. How would she have gone about it? She would learn more, she would.

“If we have the time, we should find a perch and observe the camp ourselves for a few hours.”

“Sounds good.” Alec stood up. “Leliana, you have expertise spying. I’m guessing you can help us with that. And perhaps keep watch from the perch after we go in?”

“I certainly can.” Leliana nodded, already draping a dark blue, inconspicuous cloak over herself and fetching her bow and quiver. “We can agree on a signal if anything goes wrong.”

“What about me?” Alistair asked. “The rest of us?”

“I need Bodahn far away from the chaos, and safe.” Alec said. “And I need you to assess the situation once the actual battle starts, Alistair. Go in if you can make a difference, but don’t risk yourself, Sten or Wynne. I don’t want you dead.”

“So you can risk yourself, but not I?” Alistair whined. “Is this because I’m Maric’s bastard?”

“No,” Alec said firmly. “It’s because I can’t be Warden Commander if there’s no other warden at all in Ferelden, can I?” He snorted, and playfully slapped his fellow warden on the arm. Alistair let out a chuckle, too, but it was strained. “Chin up, Alistair. We’ll be careful.”

Alistair gulped, his body tensed up.

Alec handed Wynne his staff for safekeeping, and off the three of them went. They marched the few miles that separated their party from Loghain’s camp until they could see the tents and fires and patrolling soldiers, then climbed up a tree to observe.

The patrol was simple, with six pairs of soldiers circling camp perimeter. There were no fortifications, so it wouldn’t be difficult to slip past them. The difficult part would be getting inside the general’s tent. They could barely see it from the rear, but it was one of the biggest tents up front. To its left were the canteen and supply tents, or so the three of them figured after some time watching the movement in camp. Many of the soldiers who had been walking around, sparring and chatting with each other, retreated to their own tents as the night pushed on, giving them a lot more confidence in the plan.

Morrigan found them a while later. She delivered a few more tidbits on Loghain’s army, such as the name of the man leading the siege -- A captain, rather than a general --, and other knights who had come up to the failed negotiations.

The Bann was in agreement, and ready to attack when the fire started.

Now it was up to them.

Once they’d agreed signals with Leliana, Morrigan turned into a bear to lure the pair of patrolling soldiers away from their post long enough for Alec and Zevran to quickly rush inside camp perimeter. Heads low and steps far less confident than usual, the two of them made their way to the front of camp without a single soldier looking at them twice.

Alec continued straight ahead to the supply tents, hoping to find a few more fire starters.

Zevran took a right to the captain’s tent. He slowed his pace even more, observing the pair of soldiers that stood on either side of the flap. They were alert, but at ease. When Zevran walked by, they both watched him, but didn’t cease their idle, whispered conversation.

He took another left and hid behind the tent. He’d need Alec’s help here. A synchronized attack on the soldiers would probably do, or if the warden could freeze them both at once, he might be able to slip in.

Except he noticed, at the far end of the row of tents, two approaching figures. Two more soldiers patrolling. If anything happened to the tent’s guards, they’d see and alert the camp. Zevran sighed, hiding where the patrolling soldiers would not see him to assess the situation further. He needed to know how long it took them to complete a circle, and if there were more men on watch. The two stationary guards continued to talk.

“She left to Amaranthine with her new husband.”

“And who’s doing the housework?”

“My wife’s picked it up for now, but she’s expecting, so she has these weird days. She made cookies the other day and put salt in them.”

The other man chuckled. “Mine was the same when she was carrying Darah.” There was a beat of silence. “Maker, If only I had some cookies now. Or anything at all to eat.”

“You too? Supper wasn’t very satisfying, was it? Maybe I can get us something real quick?”

“No. Ser Grint will have your head if you leave your post.”

Fucking diligent soldiers, Zevran thought, watching the patrolling officers silently pass them by. In fifteen minutes, there they were again, at the far end of the path between the rows of tents.

Cutting the tent’s canvas and entering from behind would be signing off his own death if there happened to be anyone else inside the captain’s tent, which was likely. The person would alarm the guards and he would have four foes to contend with. Zevran had to get the guards out of the way first. But it’d be very difficult to off them, kill the captain, and get away without being seen by the patrolling pair.

But… If he could deal with these two guards alone, and Alec could distract the patrolling pair...

Zevran left his hiding post, taking a different route and returning to that same row to walk by the captain’s tent again. This time he made a point of meeting the guards’ gazes.

There was something they wanted, after all. And humans were used to asking elves to fetch.

“Evening, sers,” Zevran said with a subservient tone, and the pair nodded at him. They didn’t say anything, though, and he kept on walking, slow as a fucking turtle.

He was almost gone from their sight when he heard it:

“Hey, you, elf.”

He turned around slowly. “Yes, sers?”

“Are you going to the canteen?”

Zevran nodded.

“Bring us some bread, if you will.”

He nodded again, though he grinned wolfishly once he had his back turned to the foolish pair.

Zevran met Alec again not far from the canteen.

“So?” His orchard eyes were full of apprehension.

“Lucky for us, Fereldan soldiers are the most gullible sort I have ever met, my friend,” Zevran chuckled softly. “They want me to fetch bread. Any drink to go with it, and poison shall do the trick. I can slip in and get the job done, but they have two soldiers patrolling that row. They have eyes on the captain's tent every fifteen minutes. I need twenty, maybe a little more.”

“So you need a distraction.” Alec nodded. “I can do that.”

“I was hoping you would say that,.” Zevran clasped his hands together. “Now. The bread.”

“Wait --” Alec held him back by the arm. “There’s one more thing. I have enough for the fires, but there are a lot of elves here, Zev.”

Zevran frowned. “Why, yes, of course. It is precisely why we blend in.”

“Yeah, I know. But…” Alec sighed heavily. “They’re not soldiers. They might die.”

“People die. More often when there is war, so I hear.”

“I know.” Alec’s jaw clenched. “But they don’t have to. They’re just servants, we can tell them to get out of here before shit catches fire.”

A shiver ran down Zevran’s spine. “Not every person with pointy ears is your friend, my warden,” he reminded him. “I was not. And that might get us killed.”

Alec gulped, staring back at him for a whole long minute before he finally conceded. “Okay. Let’s just get the bread and drinks.”

They went into the canteen together, where a human cook separated ingredients and two elven lads peeled potatoes. Alec nodded at them, and started looking around for bread. Zevran found the barrels of drinks in a corner and made a straight line for them.

“Is there any bread?” Alec dared ask the cook.

Zevran froze.

Bold. Too bold. Cooks worked closely with elves -- They knew who they were.

He kept his gaze fixed on the old woman, watching as she cleaned her hands on her apron and went to fetch the bread. One of the elven lads looked up, and he scowled.

“Who are you?” He asked suspiciously.

Zevran snuck his hands into his sleeves and inconspicuously pulled his throwing blades out.

“Archie. I work in Bann Ceorlic’s kitchen,” Alec lied. “Ser Donald wants some bread.”

“Is he getting drunk again?” The cook asked, entirely convinced.

But the elf was not. “He don’t work in Bann Ceorlic’s kitchen!” He shouted, standing up, pointing the peeling knife at Alec. “You’re a fucking intruder!”

Before the elf could step forward, Zevran’s knife landed square in his eye and he fell down with a loud bang. The cook screamed, and tried to make for the flap -- which only made the distance Zevran had to run to catch her that much shorter. He muted her with a palm, sunk the blade in her neck and twisted it.  

He left the knife buried in her flesh, so as not to stain his shirt, but rolled the hem of his pants to pull a third blade. He looked up, finding the last elf standing immobile in front of Alec, his mouth open on a frightened expression, like a statue.

Perfect. Aiming would be easy.

“Wait!” Alec stopped him, though he kept his voice low. “What if we warn him?”

 _This again?_ Zevran dropped his shoulders. He looked at the paralyzed elf, and back at Alec. His red eyebrows were up pleadingly, and he looked really young like that. Maybe he’d read a book where innocent bystanders never got hurt, but that wasn’t how real life went.

Still, Zevran simply shrugged. “You call the shots, _caro._ ” He scoffed, the gears of his mind back in Antiva. His veins throbbed as if he were. This was home. This was work. _“Tu sei il capo, si?_ ”

Alec frowned at the unexpected bit of Antivan, but didn’t ask. He turned back to the elf. He was a very young boy -- Barely into adulthood. White skin and blonde hair. Thinner even than Alec.

“Listen. I am a Grey Warden, and I don’t want to hurt you. I’m going to give you one chance to talk to me, yeah? If you want to get out of here alive, back to your family, you’ll do as I say.”

He lifted his spell, and the elf nearly fell to the ground. He caught himself, though, and looked up at the warden. His nose wrinkled. “You. Fucking --” He spit on Alec’s face. “-- Traitor!” He tried to reach for a knife on the table, and Zevran took a step forward, but Alec gestured for him to stop.

Alec cleaned his face on the hem of his shirt. “ _Loghain_ is the traitor. You’re being manipulated,” he tried to argue, but tapped into the Fade nonetheless, ice crawling up his arm. “You don’t have to-- Just--”

The elf didn’t care. He made for the warden, and Alec stretched his hands out, an ice stalagmite forming from his fingers and piercing through the elf’s heart, then spreading all over his chest. He went still quickly enough.

The ice shattered when the body fell.

 _Cazzo,_ Zevran thought. This could be the end of their plans, and their lives with it.

He hurried to the door of the tent, peeking through the flap with trained calm even as his grip tightened on his knives.

There was no movement outside, though; no indication that the shouts had been heard.

A fucking strike of luck.

“Quick. We must hide the bodies,” Zevran urged, grabbing the first dead elf by the legs and dragging him behind a few sacks of potatoes. He noticed one empty sack and checked just how big it was -- Enough to fit a body in. “I would appreciate a hand, if it isn't too much to ask.”

“You want to put him in a _sack of potatoes_?”

“An empty potato sack, yes.”

Alec looked around, a little startled, trying to make heads or tails of what had happened.

“Alec!” Zevran called a little louder. Now was so not the time to freak out.

“Shit. We could probably have tied them and gagged them.”

“And left them to burn when the fire started, caro? Very Andrastian,” he snickered, “but I hear it is not a kind death.”

“Fuck.” Alec shook his head. “Fuck,” he said again, and finally snapped out of it. He hurried over and grabbed the elf’s legs, helping Zevran hide him inside the sack. They did the same with the second elven lad, and buried the cook under those as well as the real sacks of potatoes.

Alec fetched a cloth and conjured water for Zevran to wash his hands. They gathered the bread and the mead they had come here for, and slipped poison into the two mugs before heading out.

“Wait, one more thing,” Alec said, hurrying back inside. He stopped before the two human-sized pots of water and lifted his hands. A draft of cold formed around him, and in seconds the water was ice. “Now let’s go.”

Hiding behind another tent, Zevran pointed Alec towards the patrolling officers, and the corridor where he had to keep them.

“Stall them for ten minutes, my warden. It is all I ask,” Zevran said. Alec still looked sickly pale, and way too out of it. This was going to go wrong, he knew it. It was a job for a trained Crow, not a book obsessed Circle Mage -- as smart as he may be. “The less you ask, and the more you let them do the talking, the better, yes? Feign sickness, fall on the ground close to them. Let them come check up on you, if it can be so. Or--”

“I’ve got this, Zev,” Alec grumbled. “I can lie too, you know.”

Tall tales weren’t the same, though. Zevran drew in a sharp breath. “Yes, indeed,” he said with a forced smile. This was going to go wrong, but he would deal with it one step at a time. First, the captain. “Good luck, then, bello.” He stood. “ _In bocca al lupo_ , as we say back in Antiva.”

“Wait, Zev,” Alec called before he had taken two steps.

Zevran turned back, and Alec shook a tiny vial in front of him.

“Fire balm,” he explained, slipping his hand under Zevran’s shirt to tie the vial to his belt with the rest of the poisons. “Good luck. Be sure not to get caught.” Alec said, and leaned down to plant a kiss on his lips before pushing him with a ‘go ahead’ gesture. “And don’t fucking die.”

His heart beat a little faster, warmth surging up his chest and his cheeks.

It was a startling, liberating feeling -- being told not to die.

Only Rinna and Taliesen had ever worried whether he came back alive from a risky job. But they _had_ to worry. If he died, they failed. If they failed, they all died. Crows weren’t made to care.

Maybe Alec didn’t care either. Not beyond what Zevran could provide. He wasn’t expendable, but that only meant his plan had worked. He’d made himself a useful enough tool.

A weapon ready to kill for Alec, a willing partner to warm his tent.

The warmth in his heart was gone even before he reached the captain’s tent, his thoughts as poisoned and deadly as the mead that he obsequiously served to the guards, and that rendered them both lifeless on the ground not three minutes later.

Zevran slipped into the tent on the tip of his toes, heart cold and grip firm. The captain was fast asleep, and to his surprise there was not a single guard or servant inside his tent, either keeping watch or waiting diligently to take his orders. It would never have been so in Antiva or Orlais.

Ferelden was a country of easily trusting people.

Tough, scraping, bravely loyal people. Even a kitchen elf fought for his lord rather than his life.

It was no surprise that the captain put up a fight as well.

The man woke up just as Zevran was straddling his chest, knees pressed down on his forearms to keep the mark from fighting back as he drew the knife across his neck with trained precision. Wide-eyed, the captain gargled blood in an attempt to cry out for help, wiggling desperately, trying to reach for his sword. Blood had splattered onto Alistair’s shirt.

The captain clawed at him, coughing more blood, punching his thighs with unbelievable strength for a dying man.

Zevran counted the seconds under his breath -- When the captain lost consciousness, he stood and fetched the water basin in the tent, washing himself up hastily. He fumbled through the man’s clothes for any undershirt that wasn’t too fancy, and traded Alistair’s bloody one for it.

He emptied the sack of clothes then, and tossed into it anything of value he could get his hands on in less than a minute. Some coin, some letters, some small chests whose contents he was unaware of. He gave the captain one last look, and collected one last trinket from the tent: A golden bracelet the man had been wearing. This was his first successful mark in months. 

Alec would probably thank him for looting the documents.

And maybe he’d get to keep some of the spoils.

Like that bar of gold.

Zevran’s heart tightened at the thought.

Perhaps he was just a weapon, but the warden was already a kinder wielder than the Crows could ever have been. If anything, Alec had made it clear with that bar of gold that Zevran wasn’t indentured to him forever.

But the knowledge that the fourth blight had gone on for _twelve_ years was disheartening.

And, besides… How many years would it be until he could fool the Crows for good?

An ages-old tiredness weighed down on Zevran’s shoulders. He would never make it. Freedom didn’t even _exist_ , and he would never feel the Antivan sun on his skin again. He looked around, and thought for a moment that another chance had come at last. It would be so much easier if he just stayed, right there, and allowed the entire army to find him.

But a strange fear gripped him.

_Don’t fucking die._

Zevran snapped himself back to action. With his knife, Zevran slit the canvas on the rear of the tent, and peeked through it to guarantee there was no one in sight when he snuck out. He walked away calmly, inconspicuously, and ducked behing another set of tents just in time to see the pair of patrolling guards show up on the far end of the row.

At the same time, the buzzing of voices grew louder. He looked farther ahead, where a handful of tent canvases had begun to catch fire.

“The captain’s guards!” A patrolling guard yelled.

A popping sound echoed, and on the left of the camp a large fire erupted.

“Captain Warren is dead!”

“There’s a traitor in the camp! Murderer!”

“Fire! There’s a fire!”

Another pop, another explosion.

“The water is frozen!”

“Go for the well!”

Zevran fetched the fire balm Alec had given him and downed it in one gulp.

“Where’s the mage?”

Mage? Had they spotted Alec? But the fires were far from where the shout came. Zevran kept his pace quick, blending easily among the several soldiers that had begun to emerge from various tents. They didn’t even know where to look for the source of the chaos, each going on a different direction. Zevran himself decided to head towards the shouts of a mage.

A deafening horn sounded.

Zevran looked over his shoulder, at Chiddingfold’s gates. A line of horses and foot soldiers charged for the camp.

“Fall into formation!”

A group of soldiers rushed past him, one of them bumping into his shoulder.

“Fucking knife-ear! Get out of the way!”

More and more shouts rose into the night. “Enemies ahead!”

“Fall into formation! We’re under attack!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Infiltrating is probably less fun than Alec had hoped it would be! XD  
> Loghain's push is based on a canon quest, but as you can see I twisted the shit out of it!  
> We're heading into heavily non-canon territory for the next two arcs! <3  
> Let me know if you guys enjoyed it!
> 
> Kudos to anyone who started singing " [ ...and _he_ just couldn't aaaaskk!!!! ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y9Gf-f_hWpU) Take me ooout tonight... Oh take me anywhere, I don't care I don't care I don't care! Driving in your car, I never never want to go home, because I haven't got one no moooreee ~" (D: Antiva's not his home, it's their home and he's welcome no more!) 
> 
> This chapter is my Happy 29 (it's tomorrow!) to myself! =D Having people to share Wayward Heart with is a gift!  
> Thank you all so much for enjoying it with me! Y'all are ridiculously awesome!


	20. Fortune Favors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH [DAfan7711](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711) and [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark) for beta-ing my work!  
>  **content warning!!!** canon typical violence, blood, death, sexual situations. =)

**CHAPTER TWENTY  
** Fortune Favors

“Archers! Archers!” a soldier yelled.

Loghain’s soldiers scrambled for their armor and weapons and ran ahead to the front, where Bann Telmen’s men had started an attack to break the siege of Chiddingfold.

There were tents burning, horns and screams lifting up in the air. “Hurry! Go!”

Zevran followed a pair of soldiers who had shouted about a mage, his grip tight on the hilt of the knife inside his sleeve. Instead of leading him to the warden, however, the two armor-clad men stopped when they saw a bearded human man in flashy mage robes.

“What’s the meaning of this? Did you set these fires? Freeze the water?” one man asked aggressively. “You better start talking, mage!”

“As if I would know!” The mage growled. “I was in my tent. Ser Grint can attest to that.”

“I can,” said a third soldier who’d been standing next to the mage. “We must head for the front lines, Lieutenant.” He pushed the mage to start walking, and gestured for the rest of the soldiers to follow him to the battlefront.

Shit. They had a mage.

He and Alec had missed that entirely.

If Bann Telmen’s numbers were really just a fifth of Loghain’s, they were fucked against a skilled mage.

“Holy Maker!” someone screamed, pointing skyward.

The soldiers stopped in their tracks and turned around. Zevran looked up.

Hovering above camp, a ball of fire the size of a head grew bigger and bigger until it was larger than Bodahn’s cart. The draft of air between the rows of tents got stuffy, the fireball heat alone melting the tent canvases.

“It’s an elf!” someone shouted from the back of the camp.

It all happened surprisingly fast. One second, they were looking up, watching the thing expand. The next, the fireball turned into dozens of flame blasts, an inferno raining down on all of the soldiers still gathering their gear and heading for battle.

Zevran ducked from a blast out of sheer luck, though he had to stop to pat the fire off the hem of his pants before it crawled up his legs. He was sweating, his skin uncomfortably hot, but he was not burning. The same could not be said about all men nearby.

If before the fire had done nothing but distract the army and delay their formation, now panicked shrieks echoed all around camp. Burning soldiers screeched and threw themselves on the cold ground, rolling around to put out the flames; and countless soldiers had gotten caught up in the blazing circle of fire and could no longer join the battle.

“Get the elf!” one man yelled. “He’s got a brown hood! Big ears! Find that fucking elf!”

Unable to head for battle, the men still standing instead all gripped at their weapons and hurried towards this mysterious elf. Zevran followed them, his veins pulsing.

“He was right here, and then he vanished!” a scarred soldier insisted. He had insignias on his uniform -- probably a higher ranked official. “You,” he pointed at a group, “Go left! And you, right! He has to be around. He has white skin and freckles. A brown hood! He’s a mage! Find him!”

The soldiers dispersed, and Zevran tailed along with one of the groups until he could duck behind a tent that wasn’t burning. He aimed a smoke grenade where the scarred soldier was standing, still insisting the mage had disappeared out of thin air.

And if Alec had disappeared out of thin air… Zevran had a guess where he was.

That invisibility trick he’d pulled back in the Circle did seem like it could have come in handy.

He padded around the tent, approaching the official from behind while he and an accompanying pair of soldiers were still coughing with the rising smoke.

Zevran threw a pebble to the left to alarm him, and ambushed him from the right, a single strike needed -- He sunk the knife into the man’s exposed neck and pulled, then twisted his arm while he turned around, bleeding to death. Zevran stole his sword and kicked the dying soldier against one that was rushing towards him.

As if on cue, the warden emerged from behind a transparent Fade cloak.

“Fucking Maker,” Alec said, paralyzing another soldier. “You’ve made it!”

“Say, caro,” Zevran said, slicing the man’s throat with his newly acquired sword. “What would be worse, so to speak? If your Bann Telmen’s soldiers had all perished, or if Loghain had a mage in his ranks? Hypothetically.”

Alec frowned, finishing off the last enemy who had spotted them in the cloud of smoke. “Neither. I hope there’s a point to that, Zev. We don’t have time for hypotheses.”

“Well, here is the thing,” Zevran offered a strained smile, “the mage part is true.”

“Tsk-,” Alec clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Fuck.” He exhaled loudly. “Just our fucking luck.”

“Luckily you have a skilled assassin at your disposal, mm? We can still kill him before the other hypothesis becomes true.”

“No,” Alec said firmly, frantically unwrapping the shawl from around his head and tying it around his waist instead. “That’s Bann Telmen’s problem now. Loghain’s soldiers have seen me. They’ll kill me if we try to get to this mage, and I’m not dying tonight. Neither are you. We gotta retreat.”

He grabbed Zevran’s wrist and pulled him from the concealing smoke, towards where they’d entered the camp. Alec let go as soon as it was clear that Zevran wasn’t going to try and insist they went into the fray after the mage.

They slipped through the throngs of desperate soldiers either trying to get to the battlefront or to find the intruder -- Cries of “ _Find the elf”_ still loud amongst the shouts.

They had almost made it out of the camp when Zevran realized there were a dozen more soldiers patrolling the perimeter now, making sure no one escaped without scrutiny -- Not until they had found Alec. Some were stomping about, gesturing wildly, yelling amongst themselves, discussing whether it was really wise to desert battle to find one elf.

There was no way to leave without being seen.

Zevran grabbed Alec’s arm and tugged him close, ducking behind a tent.

Too late.

“There’s the elf! There! Behind that tent!” someone shouted. “Get them!”

“We need Leliana,” Alec whispered to him, but it would be useless to whistle the signal they’re agreed on. Instead Alec cast a wisp of magic up in the air, like a firework.

More soldiers appeared at their left. Zevran spun around and Alec followed him, but as they left their cover behind the tent, several armor-clad men closed in on them on all directions.

He and Alec stood back to back, small steps allowing them to turn around without moving, assessing the situation. Zevran counted well over twenty men. Less than thirty, probably, but still way more than they could handle on their own, sub-armed and dressed in cotton shirts.

Zevran tightened his grip on the sword. No sign of Leliana yet.

Now was a good time to believe in the Maker.

Alec laced their fingers with his free hand -- A sudden, powerful invisible force erupted around him, like a gust of wind; so strong it collided solidly against several of the soldiers, hurling them onto the ground or pushing them back a few steps. Zevran didn’t get thrown away with the sheer force of his spell simply because Alec had held him, enveloped him in a humming wave of Fade magic.

But the magic blast didn’t hit all foes, and while many paused in surprise, one man flung himself forward, sword in hand. Zevran let go of Alec, gripping his sword with both hands and hurrying forward to parry the blow. Another followed, metal ringing against metal.

Zevran’s arms trembled with the strength of the blows. The air grew cold, and without looking he knew Alec was casting. The soldier parrying against him made the mistake of peeking in the direction of the cold -- As brief a second as it was, it was enough to kick him in the balls and push him back with the sole of his foot. Zevran readied himself for the next attacker.

“Zev!”

 Zevran noticed movement behind him a little too late.

He dodged right, but the weight of steel fell on his back anyway. The fabric ripped, and it stung, but the pain wasn’t so keen he couldn’t roll on his feet and fling himself back at the attacker. Two men closed in on him, and his heart surged up into his mouth. _Braska._

With a ‘ _fwip_ ’ sound, an arrow sunk into one soldier’s neck and he fell down with a thud.

Zevran then wacked the pommel of his sword on the second man’s jaw, knocking him out cold.

Alec was still surrounded by Loghain’s men, four or five who’d turned into ice statues. There was a freezing draft around him, magic so strong it was visible. His hands were frozen up to the elbows, but he was still safe, _for now._

As powerful a mage as the warden was, they were still outnumbered by far. They needed help.

Zevran chanced a quick glance towards where the arrow had come from. Leliana, at last?

Instead he saw Alistair emerge from between the trees.

A roaring, taunting cry echoed around them and all of the soldiers turned to look.

“For the Grey Wardens!”

Alistair charged towards them with such speed that he collided against one of Loghain’s men, sending him flying back. He bashed his shield against a second and decapitated a third with a single, swift swing of his sword. Sten followed right after him, and from afar more arrows and bolts of magic started to fly.

“Zevran,” Alistair shouted, throwing something on the ground.

The harness with his dagger and sword landed right in front of his feet. Zevran grabbed them, pulling them from the sheath and quickly rolling on the ground towards a soldier, slashing both of his ankles at once. The man howled, falling down and contorting with pain. Zevran straddled his back and sunk the blade between his ribs. He went still underneath him.

Zevran stood up, watching a raven soar low and gracefully turn into Morrigan.

Loghain’s men were numerous, but they were nothing against three powerful mages, a Grey Warden templar, an Orlesian bard, a qunari and an Antivan Crow. Their dying cries filled the air, adding to the cacophony of shouts and screams and clanking of metal from the main battle

When the last man in their proximity fell, Wynne handed Alec his staff back.

Alec turned to Alistair.

“Maker, your timing couldn't have been more perfect!” He took a deep breath, casting fire to melt the ice off his own hands. “They have a mage,” he said, pointing to the battle. “You’re better fit to deal with him than all of the Bann’s men together. We have to win tonight.”

Zevran lifted his gaze. In the distance, through the fire and dust, he could see lightning, horses, and several silhouettes clashing against each other.

Morrigan turned back into a raven and flew off towards the fray.

“I’ll find him,” Alistair said, determined, face painted in red with drops of blood.

“Go.” Alec nodded. “Sten, Leli, Wynne,” he gestured for them to join Alistair, but spread a palm in a halt motion when Zevran took a step forward to follow. “Not yet. Let me look at your back.”

Zevran’s blood was rushing so quickly through his veins he’d stopped noticing the pain. He took a look over his shoulder, chuckling upon seeing how red his back was. “Only a scratch, my warden.”

“I know you’re used to pain, but you’re bleeding,” Alec said, walking over. He stood behind him, and gently rested a palm on his shoulder, telling him to stay still.

Warmth crawled up Zevran’s skin, a throbbing, tingly feeling on his back. Heat surged up inside too, his heart still racing from the fight.

Alec chuckled. “For a moment there, I thought we--”

“We were as good as dead, hm?” Zevran finished for him, chuckling. “So did I.”

“Yeah… We did it, though. We pulled a fucking infiltration off.”

Alec placed his hand on the small of Zevran’s back, slowly sliding it up. There was no more sting, no more pain. Just the tender, warm brush of a palm on his skin. His shoulders sagged. He didn’t know why Alec thought this -- healing a wound that wasn’t even lethal -- was more important than making sure victory would be theirs.

But they had just succeeded at their mission, after all… And it felt good. So good.

“Usually I would try not to celebrate victory until the marks are all dead, my friend, but,” Zevran leaned into the touch, and turned his head back, pressing his lips to Alec’s jaw. “We make a good team, no? We are ridiculously awesome.” He grinned, his eyelids drooping as Alec’s palm snaked around his waist, pulling him flush to his lanky frame.  

Alec held his chin, keeping his face turned, and took his lips into a heated kiss. It burned like the fire around them, filled with a passion for life, with an urgency for tasting everything. He turned around to fully face Alec, moaning into their kiss.

When their lips parted, Alec looked up into the distance. The lightning was gone. There weren’t as many screams anymore. Bann Telmen’s horses still stood, though it was hard to make it all out with the smoke. “They killed the mage. Or he withdrew from the Fade, which I doubt,” Alec said, and met his gaze again.

Maker, his fucking orchard eyes!

Zevran kissed him again. His veins were still pulsing with adrenaline.

“Shit,” Alec whispered against his lips. “I hope we get to celebrate this in a bed tonight. _Fucking._ ”

Lust bristled every hair on Zevran’s body. He hummed and chuckled against Alec’s freckled cheek. Maker, was this familiar. That throbbing need to seize life with both hands, to drink, and sing and dance and fuck to a job well done; to laugh in the face of death. They’d escaped it tonight. Tomorrow they might not be as lucky.

He grinned wolfishly. “You’re a wild one, caro. You could have been--” _a good Crow_ , he meant to say, but his attention was skewed by the sound of rushed footsteps.

A group of frightened Mac Tir soldiers tried to flee before they were killed.

Too bad for them they bumped into the warden and him. One escaped their attack, but most of them ended up dead anyway. Zevran cleaned his daggers on Captain Warren’s shirt and fetched his belts back, and then they headed towards the actual fray, helping Telmen’s soldiers dispatch more and more of Loghain’s soldiers on the way.

By the time they reached Alistair and the rest of their party, the smoke was still strong, but the fire was dying where once there had been a camp. It was now a cemetery -- bodies from both factions now littering the ground all around them. There were limbs scattered about, dying men and horses both whining.

It had been a quick battle. Around an hour or so. It wasn’t pretty. But the victory was theirs.

Bann Telmen’s men canvassed the battlefield, checking every corpse for false dead, forcing the soldiers who’d surrendered to huddle up. The servants who hadn’t died in the fire or ran for their lives were captured as well.

The Bann slowed his moussy brown horse close to their party and dismounted the animal with certain difficulty. Another pair of humans on equally sturdy mounts did the same.

“The Grey Wardens do live up to the legends,” Bann Telmen said, taking a step towards them. He was an old white man of greying hair. His tired brown eyes shifted between Alistair and Alec, and he stretched his hand out to the human man. “Commander Surana, I take it? I cannot thank you enough.”

“Er--” Alistair blushed, scratching the back of his neck with gloved fingers instead of taking the nobleman’s hand. Bann Telmen looked lost. “I’m not.”

Alec coughed. “That would be me.”

“Oh-- Oh.” The man did a double take, shaking his head and blinking back at the elf. He moved his hand over to Alec. “Forgive me. I didn’t think-- The letter was so eloquent I… I er... I’d never heard of an elf in your position.”

“Then you’ve clearly slept through your history lessons, your lordship,” Alec said with restrained anger, shaking the man’s hand. “The Commander of the Wardens in the Anderfels and Hero of the Fourth Blight was also an elf.”

“The fabled Garahel, uncle Telmen. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him,” said one of the humans who accompanied Bann Telmen. He was a short, young man with a sparse beard, lively blue eyes and a friendly smile.

“I must’ve forgotten,” the old man offered softly. “Memory hasn’t been good of late. This is Finn.”

“I’m Alec Surana,” Alec said, straightening himself up and giving the younger nobleman’s hand a firm shake. The mere mention of Garahel pulled a smile from the warden. And it was a genuine smile, too -- one Zevran couldn’t help but think looked ridiculously beautiful on him. “Interim Commander of the Grey.” He then gestured to Alistair. “Or what’s left of us after Ostagar. Myself, and Alistair here.”

Alistair, too, shook hands with the pair of noblemen.

“Finn Cousland,” said the young man, then pointed his chin to a thirty-something, dark skinned woman standing next to him. She was dressed in typical Rivaini gown, several pieces of jewelry adorning her ears, neck, wrists and even her nose. “This is my arcane advisor, Asha. We could watch your progress thanks to her. We owe you our thanks.”

“Indeed. I guess we were lucky you’re elves,” Bann Telmen said. “It was thanks to that that you’ve managed to help us tonight.”

Zevran frowned, not quite sure whether the old man meant it as a joke, or if he really thought it a compliment. What, so they were lucky elves were so inferior they were no more than furniture amongst humans?

Alec unclenched his jaw and forced out a crooked, untruthful smile. “I’d credit my wits and guts and Zevran’s skills before I did our ears. But you’re right. Maybe the lesson is that if humans remembered elves are also people, you wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss us.”

So much for ‘ _keeping his cock in his pants around humans the next time_ ,’ Zevran thought with a quiet scoff. He would be lying if he said he didn’t like the beat of silence that hovered in the air with Alec’s words, though. He quite enjoyed the discomfort in the eyes of every human around them -- And all were humans around them.

Bann Telmen’s expression hardened. “We’re not like that,” he said. “We treat our elves well.”

Zevran sneered. _Our_ elves. Sure they did.

“Uncle,” Finn warned, gently touching the older man’s elbow.

“Forgive me, my lord. I’m certain you are nothing like the likes of Loghain,” Alec lied through his teeth. “Now, you’ve offered the Wardens supply, and I’m thankful, but perhaps you would allow me to explain to you just how dire this Blight is? I believe there is more the Wardens can help you with than we have tonight.”

Zevran’s stomach stirred, warmth spreading in his chest. Alec _had_ heeded his advice, then.

Bann Telmen seemed taken aback by the change in attitude. He tilted his head, looking around at the devastated camp as if deciding something. “Well, yes, certainly.” He turned his gaze back to Alec, and clasped his hands together. “But while my men get this sorted out, perhaps you will allow me to be a proper host and invite you and your party into the castle first? The siege is over. Chiddingfold stands. It begs for celebration.”

Zevran quite liked the sound of that.

Upon Alec’s request, the Bann sent a pair of mounted men to find Bodahn, Sandal and Yara and bring them into the town as well. Some of his men stayed behind to deal with the prisoners and the bodies, but Telmen himself escorted them into the Castle. Although it was late, everyone in town was awake. The good news had spread quickly, and people cheered loudly when the Bann and his entourage gaited through the cobblestone streets. Some soldiers even left the formation to hug their relatives and kiss their teary wives and their bouncy children.

There was a chorus of relieved prayers along the way.

“Maker bless!”

“Long live the Bann!”

“Praise the Wardens!”

The first thing Bann Telmen did upon stepping inside the stone walls of his castle was request a feast. He had the servants arrange rooms and draw baths for the wardens and their party. They even left quality clothes for them to change into for the celebration. Telmen’s hospitality was better than Teagan’s -- But then again, this castle hadn’t been overrun by undead.

Still, Zevran failed to truly enjoy the bath. He washed the blood of so many men off his skin that the water went crimson red much too fast. He rinsed the soap off his hair with the spare buckets of water the servants had left, and groaned when even the towel he used to dry himself turned a shade of pink. He dampened it with clean water and washed himself over with the cloth, until the blood was finally gone for good.

He had barely put on the far too large human pants they’d left in the room when footsteps came from the corridor. Soft, heel steps. Alec.

“Zev?” The warden knocked gently on the door.

“O-ho, pirate Zevran reporting for duty,” he jested as he opened the door, still in nothing but the large trousers. “I see my good Cap’n’s eager to board ship.”

Alec chuckled, closing the door. “I just can’t think of anything but the booty,” he said, snaking his arms around Zevran’s waist to squeeze his buttcheeks. He grinned. “You do have a hot ass.”

“Too bad these trousers don’t do them justice.”

“We’ll have our own back as soon as Bodahn is here. He probably is, already.”

Alec, too, was dressed in clothes that could fit two of him. His hair was down, and still damp. Zevran brushed fingers through the long ginger strands, and cupped the warden’s cheeks in his palms, tugging him down for a kiss.

No lust sparked, though. Instead of devouring his mouth, Alec simply pecked his lips.

The warden’s lustful and victorious mirth was gone.

“Something the matter, bello?” Zevran asked.

“Nothing.” Alec shook his head. “It’s just…” He scoffed, pulling away. “Actually I did want to ask you something. About… Your life, as a Crow. If that’s alright.”

“The severance package is rubbish,” Zevran jested. “I wouldn’t recommend joining, if that’s what you are considering. You are better off as a hero, caro.”

“Not much of a hero for the elves we had to kill, I don’t think,” Alec grumbled. He rested his back on the vanity and brushed his long hair back. “As a Crow, not fulfilling a contract was never an option for you, was it?”

“The Antivan Crows always fulfill their contracts.” Zevran grabbed the shirt from the bed to finish dressing. “I suspect that is not the question you wanted to ask.”

Alec shook his head. He wrinkled his nose, looking out of the window.

Zevran tied a silky purple band around his waist for minimum elegance. Alec, he noticed, had not bothered with any of that. He crossed his arms over his chest, still scowling.

“Didn’t it piss you off to no end?” Alec finally asked. “Kill for someone else, or be killed? You were bought as a child; it wasn’t ever a choice. There are the marks, which I suppose is one thing, but then you get... bystanders. You never got royally angry?”

Zevran made a face. His hand trembled slightly when he fetched the belt -- his belt --, with all of the melted trinkets. A memento of the lives that his had cost. Alec might even understand, but that only made Zevran’s heart shrink in size. It was the only life he’d had. What good would anger have done him? He fastened the belt over the silk waistband, then attached the sheath of his dagger to it and put on a trained smile.

“That, my friend, is why we have brandy and sex, and why we were taught not to think too hard.”

“Huh,” Alec fidgeted. “I’m down for the brandy and sex, but I can’t turn the thinking off… I keep seeing those two elves. I killed an elf who wasn’t a soldier or anything. Just because he was in the wrong camp at the wrong time and I fucked up, innit? It pisses me off. All because I need the help of some human who thinks he ‘ _treats his fucking elves better_ ’, like...” Alec huffed, gesturing to the door. “What’s even the difference between him and Loghain?”

None, probably, besides which piece of state they owned, and which higher-up nobles they were allied to. Such was how politics went.

Zevran sighed. Did Alec expect him to say something to soothe his soul?

“Loghain wants you dead. And you have a noble goal.”

“Yeah, but the more caught up in the Civil War I get, the more innocent lives I’ll have to take just to keep mine.” He shook his head. “The Grey Wardens aren’t mercenaries. We’re supposed to bring a ragged elven servant some fucking... A glimpse of… I don’t know, _hope_! Not death. It shouldn’t matter which sloth-humping lord they serve.”

Zevran watched him out of the corner of his eye. So he _didn’t_ want soul soothing?

He was firm, self-assured even in dealing with what kind of looked like guilt and regret. He did not weep nor break nor hide. He reasoned it, and Zevran did not know how _not_ to think of her, her damned brains and her damned resolve.

Alec would _not_ have been a good Crow. Like her, he would have wanted out, and planned out.

And someone like Zevran would have killed him before he had made it out.

“Sten’s right. I need to be careful how I form these alliances. This Civil War,” Alec pointed to the portraits of two nobles on the walls of the bedroom, “it’s not my problem. The archdemon is.”

“Then let us infiltrate his camp next,” Zevran joked.

Alec snorted. He pushed himself from the vanity and gave Zevran a playful push. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously awesome.” Zevran elbowed him back.

“Yeah, yeah.” Alec wrapped arms around his shoulders.

Zevran hugged his waist. “What of your beloved Garahel, mm? Did he always have the men he needed?”

Alec gave him the prettiest of smiles. “No. He had to ally with human nobles, too, it’s just…” He let out an amused chuckle. “His _quid pro quo_ to get the Anderfels Royal Army to fight with him in the Free Marches was _sleeping_ with Queen Regent Mariwen. And to show public support for her claim of the throne, but… legend has it the sex was the main thing. His was just another level of charming, innit?”

“Mmm, yeah, I don’t suppose it would be so bad if you could solve this Civil War sleeping with… What is her name again? The widowed Queen?”

“Anora,” Alec said, and rolled his eyes.

“What?” Zevran tilted his head. “She is a stunning beauty, so I’ve heard.”

“She is. But there’s a difference between realistically studying what Garahel did, and… Yeah. Not gonna happen.” He grinned wickedly. "If I were you, maybe."

Zevran bit his lower lip at the flattery, rubbing his hands along Alec's hips, keeping him close. "You can be quite charming yourself."

Alec scoffed humorously, and buried his fingers in his barley hair, combing the silky strands back. “Say -- Before we go down to this party... What can we do to embarrass this Bann Testicles and still look innocent doing it?”

“Mmm, I don’t know,” Zevran pondered it for a moment. “We can invite him for a game of Wicked Grace and wipe him clean.”

“I’m not really good at Wicked Grace,” Alec admitted, making a face.

“Well, my warden. I happen to be a master at it.”

“Yeah?” Alec bit the tip of his ear.

Zevran purred. “Mhm. I was always good, but I perfected it playing with a Rivaini friend of mine. However difficult it was to pry my eyes from her... _assets_.”

Last he’d heard about Isabela was when he boarded a ship in Salle. He always asked around in ports. She was still doing well for herself, and had gone south according to the longshoremen.

They were glad for that, too. They had more work when the pirate queen wasn’t around.

“You know what,” Alec grinned, untangling himself from Zevran and instead placing his palm on the small of his back, leading him to the door. “You should wipe the Bann and me both clean on Wicked Grace. Then we can share the spoils later, and he’ll even think it was a fair game.”

Zevran chuckled loudly. “You, Alec, are a man after my own heart.” As soon as they had left the bedroom, he remembered: “And speaking of spoils, caro. I might have managed to secure you some from Loghain’s Captain.”

Alec’s eyes widened in surprise, a smile on his lips. “And you’re not keeping it for yourself why?”

_Force of habit?_

He shrugged. “The quest you’re on is very expensive, or so you’ve said. I pillaged some letters as well, though they might be useless now that you’ve decided not to get involved, yes? Maybe I can sell them to one of these Banns.”

“Shut it. I still need to make alliances. And you know everything is useful so stop--” Alec tickled his flank. “Being so coy.”

Zevran grinned triumphantly -- He wasn’t particularly ticklish. They took a left at the corridor, and a passing brown-haired elven girl in plain green clothes gestured for them to go on.

Alec tilted his head at him. “I don’t care about the rest, but I’d love to see those letters later. ”

“I might be persuaded to show them to you, caro…” Zevran’s voice dropped to a seductive low. “But I do recall the promise of a more… private celebration, yes? If perhaps that were to be fulfilled first, mm?”

The grip on his waist became firmer, and before they reached the staircase at the end of the corridor, Alec veered them off course and pressed him against a wall, ducked between two large statues of Mabaris.

Zevran grinned wolfishly. “And he th--” His sly comment was swallowed by Alec’s mouth, his lips hot against his own. Alec pinned his wrist against the wall, and slowly ghosted his free hand up Zevran’s chest, caressing his pectorals through the fabric and then holding him by the neck.

“This the celebration you want?” Alec asked huskily, pressing their hips together, breathing cold air into his ear.

Zevran shivered, arousal sparkling down his spine. “Mmm,” he hummed, licking Alec’s freckled throat up to his chin. “Certainly more of _this_ ,” his gaze darted to the restrained wrist, desire washing through him because of it. “But fewer marble dogs around, perhaps? Is this erotic for you Fereldans?” he said with a shit-eating grin, hoping to rile the warden up even further.

“That is, in fact, the epitome of eroticism in Ferelden,” Alec chuckled, sucking on his earlobe, sliding a hand between his thighs and teasing close to his cock without actually touching him. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to be fucked on all fours until you’re howling.”

“Should I brace myself for when you show up with a collar, my warden? Is that something you’d fancy?” Zevran joked -- though he filed that thought in the back of his mind to discuss with Alec at a later opportunity. Now, the only thing he could focus on was that warm hand ghosting close to his cock, that anticipation, that touch that was right there… just…

Alec’s hand slid to the outside of his thigh, and then up to his hip. “I don’t fancy collars,” he said, kissing his lips again. “I do fancy making you wait until you’re kind of desperate.” He pushed away from the gap between the two statues and adjusted his shirt, making sure the long hems covered the lovely bulge in his pants. “Besides, I’m starving.”

“Ah, the fates are a cruel mistress to me once more, making me weak for a cruel man like you,” Zevran whined, though he couldn’t keep his grin hidden for long. He would pay good coin to be this deliciously teased for days on end. “How am I to survive dinner in this state.”

He pushed away from the wall, and Alec threw his arm over his shoulders once more as they resumed walking. Since their first tumble, Alec had started touching him more and more. An arm on his shoulders, a hand on his back… The warden reached out for him with such casual ease. Zevran had noticed it, of course, and did not object in the least.

“You’ll figure it out.” Alec winked. “Distract yourself with food, and Wicked Grace. Though if you invite that Rivaini seer for Wicked Grace you might just end up looking at her... _assets_ all night long.”

“Oh, so you’ve noticed it too?” Zevran wrapped his arm around Aec’s waist. “She is quite the marvel. But I know better than to play against Rivaini women if I wish to win. Especially one who can see the future.”

By the foot of the staircase, the wonderful smell of roasted potatoes and orange sauce and grilled beef wafted towards them. There was lively music downstairs, too.

“Magic can’t predict the future,” Alec stated, matter-of-factly. “Nor demons, nor spirits.”

“Rivaini seers can, so the saying goes. And so can the cards, my friend. Every Rivaini whore will tell you that.”

“You really believe in that?”

Zevran shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. One of the Rivaini prostitutes that raised me was a fortune teller. She read my future, once. Whether it was a scam, I do not know. but she was herself startled by her own predictions.”

“Why, what did it say?”

“The most absurd thing.” Zevran’s laughter scratched his throat, and he shook his head. “That I -- _Zevran Arainai_ \-- wouldn’t die young.”

No Crow lived a long life.

But what if the fortune teller had been right? What if the warden changed his odds?

Zevran chuckled. It was already a wonder he'd made it to twenty-five. And he'd made it past tonight.

He’d toast to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zevran had heard Fereldan slept with their Mabari, but he might be a little concerned now! XD
> 
> Also, also -- visuals! Bloody, post-battle battle couple art?! xD
> 
> Thank you all for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts! <3 I'm giving out Mabari crunches for comments... lol


	21. Wicked Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, big thanks to [DAfan7711](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711) and [MadamSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamSnark/pseuds/MadamSnark) for helping me with my work!  
> This chapter is accompanied by a smut side-chapter, the link for which you can find at the end. This smut scene actually has some somewhat relevant character development but like before, I decided to keep it separate from the main story. <3 Hope you guys don't mind.

**TWENTY ONE  
** Wicked Grace

Chiddingfold toasted to victory.

Bann Telmen’s hall was lively that night. Several tables were set for the nobles, the soldiers, and the guests of honor -- The Grey Wardens who had made that victory possible.

There was music warming up the cold walls of the castle, and food and drinks aplenty. The roast was so tasty Zevran didn’t even miss the fish chowder of Rialto, and the mead and the ale so dainty that he didn’t catch himself daydreaming about a bottle of Antivan brandy.

Zevran drank his share while Leliana told the many curious soldiers and nobles just how he and Alec had infiltrated camp, how Alistair had led their party to reinforce the Bann’s army. Every man that left the surroundings of their table passed the story on to the next, and more men and women circled around them, curiosity glimmering in their eyes.

The only table more populated than theirs was the Bann’s itself. It became clear quickly that the old man was far too busy with his own affairs to join a round of Wicked Grace, so instead Zevran invited a pair of young nobles who’d been vulturing around the Grey Wardens. Morrigan refused the invitation, and so did Wynne. Sten had disappeared from sight, and Leliana was enjoying herself far too much telling stories to trade it for a game of cards -- even when she had been the one to provide the deck.

"One thing I never understood about this game -- Everyone who likes it cheats. Isn’t it supposed to be a game of chance? ‘ _A bit of chance, a lot of strategy,_ ’ Teach used to say,” Alistair said, shaking his head and begrudgingly accepting his set of cards.

Zevran was surprised he’d decided to join at all. Maybe he simply hadn’t had the heart to refuse the fair-skinned, dark-haired noblewoman sitting next to him. Or perhaps he’d drunk more than his share. His reddened cheeks sure alluded to it. “Alec. Do you remember Teach?”

“Curly hair, gruff voice?” Alec asked, resting his cards face down on the table and taking a sip of his drink. Zevran felt a palm land on his thigh and he knew whom it belonged to. “Told the joke about the--”

“--about the pirate with the hook hand--” Alistair said in unison with Alec, snorting.

“--three… hundred times in the same night,” Alec finished with a humorous huff.

“Are you setting up a game of Wicked Grace here?” Finn Cousland scooted a chair over to their table. “May I?”

“Absolutely, my lord. You are just in time. I was about to make first bets,” Zevran agreed with a charming smile. The more rich noblemen playing, the better. He dealt the newcomer his cards, and turned back to Alec. “Now, what of this pirate joke? You have mentioned it, so you must tell it, no?” He waggled his brows at the Warden, lifting his tankard to his lips only to find it empty.

“Ah yeah, it’s the law of the land,” Alec chuckled, sliding his own tankard over to Zevran.

Zevran grinned, accepting the drink and savoring it while Alec recounted a joke he had actually heard before. While the table laughed -- possibly at Alistair’s loud laughter more than the joke's humorous effect itself -- he carefully pulled two cards from the deck rather than one. A Knight of Roses and an Angel of Fortitude. He added the angel to his hand, alongside the one of Charity he’d drawn at start, and set the Knight aside to discard with something else next turn.

“Teach had this tick that made the joke even better,” Alistair said as his laughter died. His brown eyes lifted up to Zevran, entirely unsuspecting of foul play so far. “He was Antivan, too.”

Because all Antivans knew each other. “Wait a minute, my Warden. You said… Teach?” Zevran leaned on the table, feigning absolute seriousness. “Curly hair, gruff voice?”

“Yes!” Alistair’s eyes beamed so brightly Zevran was almost sorry for having him on. “You knew him, too?”

“Great man, he was!” Zevran said with emphasis. “One of our finest.”

“Wait, what.” Alistair’s eyebrows knocked and he leaned heavily on the table. He was definitely a little too drunk. “Was Teach a Crow?”

Alec snickered, squeezing his leg.

“Who is this man you talk of?” Finn asked curiously, discarding a Serpent.

“Teach was a Grey Warden,” Alistair explained.

“Unfortunately, I knew him only shortly,” Alec added, making his own play. He discarded another Serpent, and Finn’s expression turned a little gloomy.

Perhaps due to the cards. Or to the topic.

“We have heard of the horrible end the Wardens faced, save the two of you. I am sorry,” the nobleman said. “My brother, too, died in Ostagar. Along with the Knights of Highever, and Bann Telmen’s daughter and all of the men who should have made this castle defensible on its own.”

As he spoke, the words grave and sorrowful, Zevran very inconspicuously retrieved an Angel of Truth from the under the two Serpents in the discard pile. In its place he put down a Song and a Knight. The dark-haired noblewoman squinted her eyes at him, but didn’t say anything.

Alistair’s eyebrows curved up, and he swallowed thickly. “They died heroes,” he said.

“That would be a comfort if I believed it, but what is heroic about being betrayed and murdered in cold blood?” Finn asked with a bite of anger in his tone. “Loghain had been planning all of it.”

“Planning all of it?” Alistair frowned. “How? Why?”

“For power? For… Fuck if I know.” Finn rested his back on his chair and chanced a glance at the pair of young nobles at the table. For a moment he seemed like he would say no more, but as the girl made her play, he turned back to Alistair and Alec and went on. “Arl Howe murdered my family _before_ Loghain left King Cailan to die, and I am certain these are not coincidences.”

“What happened, exactly? In Highever.” Alec asked. “We’d heard humor the servants had done it.”

“No. It was Rendon Howe. Ten days before Ostagar fell, Howe came to our home in good faith. He’d always been a friend of my father’s, since I was a kid. Fergus had left with the army to join the King’s forces, so Howe knew we were mostly defenseless. At night, after we had all retired, his men slaughtered everyone in the castle. My parents fought, but they didn’t stand a chance... Howe even killed my eight-year-old nephew in his bedroom.”

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair exclaimed. “The pig! Loghain knew Bryce and Eamon wouldn’t buy his version of what happened in Ostagar, so he...”

“...Maneuvered to eliminate them before making his move against Cailan, yes,” Finn finished.

Loghain’s scheming was taken straight from a Crow handbook. The only snag in his plan was that its execution didn’t live up to the theory. More people had survived than he had anticipated.

The Wardens had survived Ostagar and the Crows’ -- his -- attempt.

Arl Eamon had not yet succumbed to the poison.

This young Cousland man still stood, and there was a burning fire in his eyes.

“How did you escape?” Alistair asked, playing a card down without even looking at it.

“Asha pulled me out of the castle, but…” Finn sipped his drink. “I can’t come public with this yet. With Loghain sitting on the throne, they’ll find a way to have my head. And not many nobles recognize my claim to Highever. So I’ve been hiding.”

“About your claim… If you don’t mind-- I may be mistaken, but I’d thought…” Alistair’s cheeks went red even before his question was out. “I’d thought Bryce only had one son? Fergus? And a daughter? Frida?”

Finn chuckled ever so softly. “My dad thought so too,” he said, smiling. “But it turns out he had two sons all along, and no daughter.”

“Two sons? Oh.” Alistair frowned, and blushed even harder when understanding dawned upon him. “So you were-- You are Fri--”

“Finn,” the young man insisted.

Alistair went redder still. “Oh. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I was confused because I didn’t remember your name, but--” He choked on his words, and quickly lifted his tankard to wash them down. “I didn’t mean to-- I should just focus on the game. I never remember how it goes -- Do Knights win against Serpents?”

“They do,” Finn chuckled, and waved a hand in the air, pulling a card from the deck. “And do not worry, Alistair. I _am_ Bryce’s legitimate son, I just haven’t gone by that old name for almost a year now. I would rather not go back to it.”

“Yes, of course. Forgive me,” Alistair offered kindly.

Zevran lifted his eyes only to briefly retake in Finn’s looks. He had beautiful eyes, and a beard he was most definitely proud of, judging by the smile that graced his lips as he scratched it. He truly didn’t seem too perturbed by Alistair’s fumbling -- Then again, the human warden clearly did not mean harm.

Given his upbringing, Zevran was pretty familiar with people whose gender didn’t match whatever they’d been assigned at birth. And judging by the pronoun Alec used for his former lover, so was he. Alistair, on the other hand, had been raised at a Chantry.

Finn took it in stride. “I understand that you didn’t know. Eamon only learned of it recently, too. I was taking my time revealing this to people, so not every noble and their Marabi knows about it.”

“My Mabari does,” the dark haired girl snickered, and placed the Angel of Death down. Her grin showed she had hoped to win, and Zevran almost wanted to let her have it -- For her age, she was certainly a skilled player.

But his four Angels beat her four Knights.

“I believe I was quite lucky.” Zevran said as he collected his winnings.

“You were cheating,” she accused lightly, narrowing her eyes at him once more.

“Not if you did not see it, mm?” He gave her an insolent grin.

“Ah, so this is how we are playing.” She collected the cards from the table and shuffled them. “Another round, then.”

Zevran cocked his head in Alec’s direction. “I like her.”

“She’s Gert Mac Eanraig,” Finn introduced the pair. “And her brother, Lyon.”

“A pleasure, my lord, my lady,” Zevran bowed slightly, watching the servants come over to refill the drinks. Alec’s hand slid to the inside of his thigh, stroking him softly over the silky fabric, pulling a slow breath from between his teeth. Gert dealt the cards and raised the bets.

“Where is Morrigan?” Alistair grumbled, folding. “I bet she jinxed my cards.”

Finn accepted the stakes, but instead of looking at his cards, he addressed Alec. “Commander, I was thinking… that we could work together for both our benefit. Me, to reclaim Highever. You, to defeat the Darkspawn.”

“I am certain you know this, my lord, but ending this Blight _is_ in both our benefit,” Alec said, scooting back on his chair to check his new cards.

Zevran tsked discreetly, his thigh now cold where that freckled hand had been. His mind already wistful for those hands to roam every other inch of him, too.

“Eh… Maker knows what’d be of Highever if the darkspawn got there,” Alistair said.

“Yes, I understand that,” Finn agreed, picking and discarding cards without caring. “But the Grey Wardens will need a united front to fight the Darkspawn, and a country in war is not it.”

Alec nodded. “True. We have Kinloch Hold’s support, but we need more fighting men to make a stand.” His hand returned to Zevran’s thigh, but this time not to tease close to his crotch. Out of the corner of his eye, Zevran noticed a card between his warden’s slender fingers.

Now that was far from a discreet move, but luckily Gert was too busy watching the hand he had on the table. Zevran took a single card from the deck, and discarded another. She seemed satisfied, and moved her gaze away to her brother, who was playing next, giving Zevran enough time to trade some crap card with Alec for whatever he was offering under the table.

The Angel of Death.

Zevran didn’t know which was harder, hiding a grin or withholding the wish to kiss his warden’s lips there and then. Alec might not be good at the game, but he sure was a wicked thing.

And all the while he kept his orchard eyes on Finn Cousland. “What do you suggest, my lord?”

“My uncle and I -- There are no armies we can offer the Grey Wardens, as we’ve told you. All we have is influence left.” Finn’s voice was composed, of a young man groomed for the role he was playing. “I need to parlay with the Landsmeet lords in Denerim, but I cannot go to them on my own if I want to _leave_ these meetings alive. If your party can offer me protection, I will attempt to sway the nobles to stand with the Grey Wardens.”

Alec placed his cards face down and intertwined his fingers over the table. “My lord Cousland, I--Listen. The horde that massacred the wardens, the King, your brother--” he knit his eyebrows. “It is probably killing more people as we speak. It’s not the full bulk we faced in Ostagar, and we can’t tell if it’s heading someplace in particular, or mindlessly taking over every land in front of them, but it’s past Crestwood now. I cannot go further East.”

“You came this far.”

“I did,” Alec said. “It was a gamble. I knew you'd believe our word over Loghain’s, at least. And I had to believe _some_ noble, unlike Loghain, would understand that the people of Ferelden are more important than who sits on what throne. Loghain doesn’t care that he rules over wasteland as long as he rules.” He sounded resolute, strong. “If I go to Denerim next, I will be leaving the West of Ferelden in the hands of the Darkspawn. I’d agree to your proposition if the horde had gone back underground, but letting it destroy dozens of cities and kill hundreds of people can’t be my only option right now. It shouldn't be yours.”

Alec’s posture was straight, his face hardened. Especially after tonight's victory, he looked and sounded like someone you would be a fool to dismiss as inconsequential.

Finn pursed his lips, holding Alec's eyes without giving him an answer.

“It’s your turn,” Gert told Finn.

“Ah,” he said, and took that moment to ponder, then discarded a song.

No Angels were coming up, so Zevran reckoned they were being hoarded by more players than him. Especially if so many of them weren’t paying attention to the game.

Finn scratched his sparse, handsome beard. “There is only one noble West of Ferelden who could possibly take on the Ostagar horde… Bann Franderel of West Hill.”

“Would he fight with the wardens?” Alec asked.

Finn tilted his head left and right. “I must speak with my uncle. This is… He might not agree.”

“If we don’t fight it, we might have ended Loghain’s siege only for Chiddingfold to be sieged by the Darkspawn next,” Alec insisted.  

It surprised Zevran that instead of celebrating his victory here tonight, Alec was already diving into that game of politics, worrying about the Darkspawn, the war, the alliances.

It was probably quite a burden to bear… this title he’d claimed. Commander.

Alec put down a Knight, and Zevran’s grin crooked. In a deft trick of magic of his own, he pretended to turn a card from the deck only to skilfully reveal the Angel of Death he’d been keeping in his sleeve. While Gert groaned in frustrated, he swiped the Knight on the discard pile and added it to his hand.

Three Knights, two Angels. “Ah, it would seem Fortune is favoring me tonight,” he boasted.

“He’d just discarded that Knight.” Gert pointed at Alec, indignance in her voice. “How in the Void can it be in your hand?”

Alec creased his red eyebrows. “Me? No. I discarded this Serpent,” he said, picking up the card Zevran had left on top of the pile. He _pouted_. “Not a very good strategy, in hindsight.”

Zevran held back a snort. If the Maker existed He would make them both burn for cheating and lying to a girl who wasn’t even a proper adult yet. He collected the winnings once more, but felt his interest in the game dwindle when Finn stood and asked Alec to come with him.

“It would be best if you talked to my uncle yourself,” Finn said.

Alec patted Zevran’s thigh. “I’ll have to win my dignity back on this game later,” he said with a wink, downing what was left of his drink before addressing his fellow warden. “Alistair?”

"Huh?” Alistair frowned, taking a moment to realize he was being summoned. His eyes gleamed with delight, a tiny curve of a smile on the corner of his lips. But in the next second his face fell. He shook his hand in denial. “Nah. You go ahead. I may have drunk a little too much to address the Bann.”

“Rubbish,” Alec insisted. “If I’m dealing with him on behalf of the Wardens, I’d rather you were present.” He patted Alistair’s shoulder as he walked past his chair. “Now come on. Get your ass up.”

Alistair gulped, watching Alec follow Finn away from their table. He made to stand up, then sat back down and leaned close to Zevran, practically whispering into his ear:

“If I put my foot in my mouth and ruin everything -- remind Alec it was his doing.” Then he stood and followed after the other men.

Zevran snorted. Next to Alec’s bravado, Alistair’s lack of confidence was jarring. But despite his joking, he looked somewhat happy Alec had insisted on his company.

Someone flopped down on the chair at his right and Zevran turned to find another redhead where his warden had been sitting.

“Are you having fun?” Leliana asked.

Zevran’s grin stretched again. “We shall have much more fun if you join us, my dear.”

“I would love to,” she said, straightening herself on the table and noticing his winnings piled up. “Oh, you’ve won all of that?”  
  
“He’s cheating,” Gert insisted. “I’ll call it out if I see it.”

“Oh Zevran!” Leliana reprimanded him coyly, raising an eyebrow at him over her cards. “How can you do something so despicable as cheat?”

“I am a terrible man, yes?”

And she a terrible woman. Of course, he knew he was in for a challenging opponent, but he was sad to realize, after a few more tankards and a few more rounds, that his winnings vanished far faster than he could collect them, with Leliana on the table. Curiously enough, Gert did not once accuse the red-headed minx of cheating -- He figured she escaped the scrutiny either for virtue of being a woman, a soft-spoken Chantry sister, or a human. Perhaps all of it at once.

Despite promising to come back soon, several rounds went by without Alec returning. Looking around the hall, Zevran found no sign of the warden’s ginger head or Finn. He excused himself to the privy, and walked over to Asha to ask her the whereabouts of the nobleman she was Arcane Advisor to. She told him they’d left the hall, but otherwise did not know where they were.

Zevran sighed. He’d been enjoying the night of gambling and frisky hands, and thought that the thrill of escaping death and succeeding in their plan would end up in one of those comfortable beds, fulfilling that promise of celebration. But he should know better not to expect… what? Availability, from Alec?  

The boy was actually _the Warden Commander_ , now. Their success was more than just a dead mark. It was a town’s victory. And it would probably keep him busy with noble folk, if he didn’t already have all that Darkspawn business to handle. Zevran wasn’t going to run after him.

But there was something still running in his veins -- A throbbing want, a hunger, a lust for life that he desperately wanted to indulge with loud moans and an orgasm. Even when Taliesen and Rinna weren’t around when he finished a mark, there was always a brothel nearby. It wasn’t the kill that had him starving for pleasure… It was making it to the other end of it.

He figured he could try and charm Asha, and still take someone to his bed today. Or one of the two musicians who had been playing for the Bann all night long. One of them was a golden-haired human man who most certainly enjoyed the company of other men. Zevran glanced at them, and although he did not lack in desire, he did not feel compelled to dance that dance either. He knew well enough that seducing someone meant being available for them -- It was just foolish to want them to be available in return.

Braska.

A little drunk and a little curious, Zevran followed the staircase of the castle up to its battlements, trying to distract his thoughts by enjoying the freedom of not having to sneak past a single guard in the process -- unlike most of the previous times he had climbed to the top of a castle such as this.

From up there, he could oversee the town -- still very much awake even at this time of night. He saw what was left of Loghain’s army camp, the lingering smoke that still rose in the air, the few soldiers still canvassing the battlefield, so that by tomorrow afternoon little would be left of it. Beyond that were long, dark stretches of trees and farm land. The river was a small stream far, far away. Probably not visible to the human eye.

He sat on an opening between higher walled structures, the cold breeze bristling the hairs on the back of his neck. Too cold for comfort, and this wasn’t even Fereldan winter. He wrapped arms around himself, rested his back against the bricks, and closed his eyes to fight back a bit dizziness.

What if he fell from here?

“Oi, what are you doing he--” A castle guard called, stomping over to him and then stopping on his tracks when Zevran peeped his head to look at him. “Oh, forgive me, serah. You are with the Wardens, yes? I assumed you were one of the kitchen staff.”

“Did you, now?” Zevran asked.

“Eh… One of the boys has blonde hair much like yours, serah. I didn’t mean anything bad by it.” He offered a courteous bow. “Carry on with…” He gestured vaguely, not sure what Zevran had been doing. “Please,” he added with another nod, and turned around to return to his post.

"Trouble with the guards?” A familiar voice asked. Alec.

Zevran scoffed. “No such thing, no. He was simply telling me how uncanningly I resemble a kitchen boy, here. He must be truly a marvel to behold, mm?”

Alec offered him a lopsided grin. “Ah, yes… Humans.” Approaching the walls, the warden took a seat in the next of the openings. Zevran couldn’t see him anymore, but his voice carried in the night. “Got bored of playing? I heard Leliana wiped you clean.”

“Slander and lies,” Zevran snorted.

“And I’d invested all my savings in you...” Alec tsked.

“Worry not, bello. I have secured _some_ of our winnings.” Maybe just enough to cover the bets in the first place, but after the bar of gold Alec had given him, Zevran wasn’t worried in the least about spending. “I was, however, counting on your moral support. Without it, I was in terrible disadvantage against Leliana’s bardy ways.” He grabbed a loose pebble from the wall and started toying with it. “Did you secure the alliances you had hoped for?”

“Not really, not yet,” Alec said. “The Bann was busy, but he said he’ll talk to us tomorrow. But we got word that his surgeon was struggling with one of the wounded soldiers from the battle. So I offered to help. Wynne’s still there now.”

“You were healing their wounded? And it has not won you their alliance?”

“I didn’t do it for that,” Alec argued. “We were a bit removed from the battle. I hadn’t realized there were so many wounded or I’d have offered to help earlier.”

“Very noble of you.” Zevran knocked the pebble on the brick at his side.

“Huh,” the warden scoffed. “It’s weird because healing wounded soldiers from battle is what I used to think would get me out of the Circle.”

“Not your dreams of following after Garahel?” Zevran asked, lowering a leg down, swinging his foot back and forth.

“I didn’t know that the Wardens would ever come and recruit. I mean… I knew they sometimes did. But I wasn’t going to sit around and get old in that tower waiting for it to happen. I knew trying to run would get me killed or locked up in the dungeons for months, so I figured if anything could get me out of the Circle safely, healing was it -- That’s why I specialized in Spirit Healing. And if I was out and about, I could knock at the Wardens’ door and enlist, innit? That was the plan, anyway.”

“It still worked out much as you wanted, no? _Commander,_ ” Zevran said teasingly.

“It was more convoluted than I wanted. A lot more deaths.” Alec chuckled, and kicked Zevran’s foot playfully, pestering him. “And you? You never ever tried to run from the Crows before? Never… thought up a plan? I’d spend _nights_ revisiting mine. Dreaming about it.”

Had he never wanted to run? Zevran looked down at his calloused hands, free of gloves at the moment. He sighed. “I did, yes... run away. Once.”

He figured his mother’s gloves would be too tight to wear, today. He could not test the theory, however, as he did not have them, nor could he remember their exact size. He did remember how immensely deprived of… everything… he had felt when they had been taken from him. “I was young and not yet so sold on the idea that an Antivan Crow was the only thing I could be. I thought maybe I could be something else.”

His heart shrunk at the thought. Although the Crows had taken the gloves from him, they did not pluck away that foolish, youthful feeling that his mother’s blood was his blood, and that he, too, was Dalish like she had been.

“And?” Alec asked.

“It did not prove true. And thus I went back to the Crows -- with my tail between my legs, as the saying goes.”

“But where had you gone, when you ran? Back to the whorehouse?”

“Hah,” Zevran laughed raucously. “The whores would have sent me back in a heartbeat. And besides, I do not envy the fate of the whorehouse boys who did not fetch a decent price with the Crows. Except, perhaps, one… He managed to pay off his debt and became an acrobat with the Anivan City Circus. We met again, once… It was quite a re-encounter, if you know what I mean.” He laced his tone with sensuality, for such had been the nature of that encounter.

“I bet it was,” Alec answered, not sounding amused.

Nor did he rebuke Zevran for not quite answering his question.

Zevran sighed heavily. “I had run to the Dalish, my warden. I had in my head this foolish notion that because my mother was one, that I had a place with them.”

“You knew your mother, then?” Alec asked.

“I did not, no. She died giving birth to me. My first victim, as it were.” Zevran looked out at the outline of Chiddingfold in the distance, a pang in his heart he didn’t usually like to revisit. “The whores told me about her, however. She had fallen in love with an elven woodcutter, and accompanied him back to the city, leaving her clan behind for good. And there of course, the woodcutter died of some filthy disease and my mother was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts. Oldest tale in the books.”

“For an elf, I suppose,” Alec agreed morosely. “But your mother didn’t die because of you, you know. It might have been a hemorrhage, or an infection, or a fever, or I don’t know. Either way it went untreated. I think it says more about the whorehouse’s living condition and the midwife’s skill than anything else.”

Yes... Zevran had thought about that before. What if she’d had a healer?

But she hadn’t. And his life had still cost her hers.

Alec sighed. “I know it doesn’t make it less fucked up, though... I’m sorry.”

Something knotted in Zevran’s throat. Sorry? Well, yes… Perhaps sorrow was a sentiment he was deserving of. What could he do with it, though? If he were to start wallowing in the horrors of his past he might never get up again.

“That’s… kind of you to say, but unnecessary. Surely your childhood was not so idyllic?”

Not that Alec had told him an ounce of truth about his origins, so far, but perhaps that was the most obvious indicator that it had not been a joyous existence. People like them were not products of a happy life of contentment, after all. Leliana, Morrigan, Alistair, Sten… Perhaps even Wynne. Zevran would wager none of them was lacking in sorrow.

“It wasn’t… I never met my father, either. He was an apostate, so my guess is he got killed by Templars at some point,” Alec offered, and Zevran had a feeling he wasn’t actually lying this time. There was a pause, the wind rustling around them before the warden went on. “I don’t remember my mother. Grew up with a drunk, penniless uncle until magic happened.”

“Did you know about your father’s magic, growing up?”

“Mhm,” Alec agreed. “But inheriting magic isn’t exactly desirable, is it? Not where I come from, anyway. The thought of it was more a fear than a fantasy. If he’d been Dalish maybe I’d have dreamt about him showing up one sunny day on a shiny halla, I guess.” He chuckled. “You did, didn’t you? I bet you did.”

Zevran chuckled with him. “Ah, yes… I admit my dreams of the Dalish were painfully delusional. It was always a point of fascination, for me. The one thing of my mother that I possessed was a pair of gloves. They were of Dalish make, I knew that much, and beautiful.” He closed his eyes, picturing himself nine, admiring the gloves in the dim light, in a corner of the warehouse. His heart shrunk even further, small as a raisin.

“During my Crow training, I had to keep them hidden, of course, as we were not allowed such things. Eventually, they were discovered, and I never saw them again… But when a Dalish clan drew near Antiva, I thought it would be better for me to run off and join them. As you know… the reality of it did not live up to the fantasy I had constructed as a boy.”

“Why?"

“Ah, can you imagine it, my friend? Living in the woods, always on the run? No good wine or fancy silks?” Zevran chortled. The hardships of Dalish life were reasonable, but that did not compare to being a Crow. It would be a big fat lie to say lack of comfort had deterred him. He sighed. “Ah. The truth is… if they believed my mother had been one of them, then they saw me as a bastard child of a traitor. If they did not, then I was no more than a flat ear running from the Crows. They wanted nothing to do with me.”

There was a _thud_ \-- Alec’s boots landing on the floor, and in a moment the warden was standing next to him, leaning his shoulder on the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“Their loss,” he said. “Me, I only ever met one Dalish clan, not long ago. After Commander Duncan recruited Skyler and me, we ended up coming across their camp. They weren’t very receptive, either. Duncan recruited one of their hunters. She was civil, but not too willing to mingle.” Alec knocked his red brows together. “Did the clan you go to also eat human meat? She told me they sometimes had to, when food was scarce.”

Zevran made a face. “The Dalish, cannibals? I do not claim to be an expert, my friend, but either she was lying to you, or--” Or the rumors he’d heard about Antivan clans being far more violent than Southern clans was completely wrong, was what he meant to say.

But he noticed the corner of Alec’s lips turn upwards just slightly. “Or _you_ are lying to me.”

“Me? Lying? Never.” Alec snorted, uncrossing his arms and putting his hand on Zevran’s thigh. He leaned down, and brushed his freckled nose on Zevran’s, their lips inches away from one another. His breath was warm on the skin, smelling of ale.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Cross my heart,” Alec said, burying his fingers in barley hair and combing it down gently. He closed his eyes, swallowing up the distance between their mouths. His lips were soft, his kiss a slow crescendo. The gentle brush in Zevran’s hair became a grip, and Alec pulled at him, making him sit up straight, not letting his mouth go until he was melting into that kiss. Alec’s palms rubbed on Zevran’s arms and he stopped, pulling away. “You’re shivering.”

“Ah, only a little,” Zevran admitted, sliding his hands up Alec’s back. “Certainly you can share with me some of your heat?”

Alec cast a spell, delicate hands massaging his arms, spreading warmth through his skin. “Let’s go downstairs.”

“Oh? What shall we do downstairs?” Zevran asked coyly, allowing Alec to pull him up by the hand. “Do you perhaps intend to take me to dance?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I intend to do,” Alec said with playful sarcasm.

As Alec tried to guide him away, Zevran tugged him back by their laced hands -- Overpowering the warden was no trouble at all, and the boy stumbled into his arms. “I am quite an excellent dancer, my friend, or so I’m told.” He placed a palm on the small of Alec’s back and stretched out their joined hands. He led the warden a step to the left, and then, keeping him firm in his arms, stepped back and twisted them around.

It became very clear very quickly that Alec did not know how to follow.

“No, Zev, sto--” Alec tried to protest, words caught in his throat when Zevran pulled their hips flush together, and leaned him down for a dip -- His long red hair falling back, almost touching the floor, his cheeks pink with embarrassment.

Zevran pulled him back up, and broke his upcoming complaint by cupping his cheeks and tugging him down into a fervent kiss. He wrapped his arms around Alec’s bony shoulders, tangled his fingers in his copper hair, moaning hopelessly into his mouth.

Alec held his waist, brought him closer still, grinding their hips together. He kissed Zevran’s chin, his neck. “I think we can do better than _dancing_ , downstairs.”

“No dancing?” Zevran pouted. “Not at all? Of any kind?” He landed his palms on Alec’s chest and gripped at the fabric of his shirt, indecently swaying his hips against the warden’s.

Alec licked his lips. Zevran turned around, wrapping arms back on Alec’s neck and pressing his ass to the bulge of his pants.

Alec drew in a shaky breath, exhaling against Zevran’s ear. “Zev,” he growled impatiently, arms around Zevran’s waist forcing him to follow in step as he started walking towards the stairs. “My room, now, or I’ll leave you to dance on your own.”

**[continue to[CHAPTER TWENTY ONE B](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13125636/chapters/34670588)]**

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed these two dumbasses cheating together! <3  
> This chapter took me so long, so many re-writes, omg! @-@ But its's done!  
> And I would love to know your thoughts! =D It would make my day!  
> Oh, and click click ^ over there to read the smut one, too (unless that's not your thing, in which case just skip it. XD)
> 
>  **Oh, also. Here is a quick explanation of how I understand Wicked Grace works:**  
>  At the start, every player is given five cards. They make bets at this point (and only then).  
> After that, each person plays a turn (in clockwise or counterclockwise order), in which they must: 1. discard a card (face up) onto the discard pile. And 2. get one from the **draw** deck, also face up. If it is not the Angel of Death, they add it to their hand. Then, the next person does the same.  
>  That goes on until someone draws the Angel of Death, face up, which means the game is over.  
> Everyone then shows their set of five cards, and whoever has the best combination of cards wins.  
> There are four suits (Songs, Serpents, Knights and Angels) and each one has an X number of different cards. The suits have varying values. And like in poker, certain combinations are stronger than others (for example, Three Knights and Two Angels might beat Four Songs).  
> That said, there are many different ways to cheat. And you are only penalized for cheating if you are caught in the act. If at the end of the game you have in your hand a card someone had discarded during the game - Of course you cheated. But you weren't caught doing it so tough luck. ;P

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone would like to see my art of Alec and Zev (there's plenty) or chat, feel free to find me on Tumblr:  
> http://raymurata.tumblr.com/


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